


Fortune's Favour

by Shadowcatxx



Series: Pirate Duology [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Child Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Family, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Pirates, Romance, Sexual Content, The Royal Navy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: The Caribbean 1735. Captain Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Navy captured the infamous pirate, Francis Bonnefoi, and then rescued two orphaned boys from certain death—all quite by accident. It was supposed to be simple: take them back to England; the boys to an orphanage, the pirate to the gallows. It was supposed to be fast: just six short weeks together on a ship. It was not supposed to make him feel things. It was not suppose to make him re-evaluate his entire life.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Series: Pirate Duology [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744441
Comments: 85
Kudos: 139





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> This is a re-post of the first FACE family story I ever wrote. I wrote it years ago, but it still holds a special place in my heart, so I thought I would share it here as well. Please excuse all of the historical inaccuracies—I'm well aware of how inaccurate and unrealistic this story is, but I wasn't aiming for historical verisimilitude when I wrote it—as well as my taking liberties with some character names and relationships. Thank-you all for your time and interest. I hope you enjoy. :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

AMERICA — Alfred

CANADA — Matthew

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

* * *

The blue-eyed child looked like a cherub, picture-perfect, with soft golden locks. His smile was big, like sunshine.

But Al wasn't smiling. His heart was pounding and his hands were balled into tiny fists as pearly tears rolled down his rosy apple-cheeks. The man they called Serge had taken his twin brother and was hurting him. Al could hear Matt's cries, ripped from the back of his throat, and Serge, inebriated beyond coherency, yelling at him to be quiet. Al could see the ugly bruises Serge inflicted as he hit Matt, discolouring Matt's pale skin like fingerprints of ink. Al squirmed like a fish out of water, begging Serge: " _Stop it_ , _you're hurting Mattie_! _Pwease stop it_!" But Serge only snapped at him to stay silent and not fuss. Al wanted to argue and defend himself and Matt, but he was petrified of Serge's wrath. He had felt it too often before. So instead, he bit his quivering lip and clenched his fists and sat down on the bed where Serge ordered him to stay, and he watched the horrible scene. Feeling alone, afraid, and helpless, he watched as Serge beat his brother, knowing that he was next.

Much later, the twins were sleeping together in the upturned crate that served as a bed, crammed with an old straw-stuffed pillow. They pretended to be asleep, hugging each other, if not for security then for comfort, but neither of them felt safe. They hadn't felt safe since Mama had gone, leaving them alone in this frightening place with Serge.

"You belong to me now," he told them every night. "Me and no one else. I'm all you've got, so you'd best obey me; you'd best behave. You don't want to make me angry, do you? No. I'm your father. I'll do whatever the fuck I want with you, because I'm your father. Alfred, Matthew," he said, grinning viciously down at them, " _you're all mine_."

The brothers could only agree and obey. They were just four-years-old, after all: too young to recognize Serge for what he was. Instead, he was the only thing standing between them and helplessness. He fed them, and clothed them, and housed them, and protected them from everything but himself. They didn't know anyone else, and no one else knew that they even existed, just like no one had known about Mama.

"You're my secret," he told them, "and a secret must be kept."

At four-years-old, Al and Matt were already apt secret-keepers. They didn't tell anyone about how frightened they were now that Mama was gone, or how sad and confused they were by her sudden disappearance. Lying awake at night and listening to Serge's loud, drunken snores, they told each other that she would return on the morrow to get them and take them away. Neither of them understood the concept of abandonment, but they understood the feeling of it better than most children. It was as familiar to them as an old imaginary friend. Just because they couldn't see it or name it didn't mean it wasn't there. For weeks they spied through the tiny attic window, staring across the fields to the gleaming jewel-blue sea far below.

When a ship finally did arrive in the port, however, it wasn't carrying Mama.

A crew of uniformed men came ashore, wielding long bayonets. The redcoats fought Serge's nasty, ugly men. And then they set the house ablaze.


	2. One

**KIRKLAND**

**THE CARIBBEAN**

**1735**

Captain Arthur Kirkland of the _HMS Rose_ —a retired ship-of-the-line—cleaned the bloodied blade of his bayonet on the corpse's tailored cotton shirtsleeve. The man nicknamed _Serge_ had been relatively attractive for a lowlife scoundrel. He was tall, blue-eyed, and blonde. He had been a fierce fighter, but drunk on rum and bloodlust like a beast. It had made him sluggish and ill-tempered and prone to mistakes, unschooled in proper swordsmanship. No instructor had taught him the rules of fair engagement; he had simply attacked wildly and gotten himself mercilessly cut down. In the end, he had been nothing more than a cutthroat privateer, brought to justice by Arthur's own hand—an extension of the law, itself—in the name of the king. Serge had been living with a hefty price on his head for some time, wanted for the murder of seven people, including his wife; for theft and desertion; and charged with tax evasion. He had been living in luxury (or, what passed for luxury in the barbaric Caribbean) for nearly three years, untroubled by the law, but no longer. Captain Arthur Kirkland had been sent to carry out Serge's fatal sentence, and he had.

_No one escapes the king's justice_ , the young Englishman thought proudly.

He was about to leave, having ordered his men to torch the house and everything in it—there was nothing of value inside—when he noticed the attic door hanging ajar. He couldn't have said why he decided to peek inside, only that curiosity overwhelmed him and guided his footsteps. It led to a small padlocked space (the lock hung open) with a low, slanted roof. It looked like it was used primarily for storage, stacked with empty crates advertising several well-known merchant's wares. It might have been full of expensive contraband once, but now it was nothing more than dry kindling for the fire.

_It's just an empty room_ , Arthur thought, feeling foolish and disappointed.

On the outside, he was a respected, well-spoken, and decisive young man with a good record. A well brought-up naval captain who lived for king and country. He represented everything that an Englishman ought to be, bringing imperialism to the farthest reaches of the British Empire to maintain order. On the inside, however, he was a twenty-two-year-old man who secretly craved danger and adventure and swordfights on foreign soil. He was quick-tempered, foul-mouthed, and had never hesitated to defend himself or his pride. He had read too many swashbuckling penny-dreadfuls as a boy and idolized the devil-may-care heroes they featured. But heroism didn't pay the rent and a pirate's life was short. A position in the Royal Navy was the logical choice for a talented working-class boy of modest fortune. So here he was, chasing down the heroes of his boyhood fantasies: earning a decent, honest living upholding the law by murdering men in cold-blood.

Arthur sighed and started to leave. The house groaned as fire licked its base, smoke rising. That's when he saw them: two boys hiding in the wardrobe, spying on him.

_Bloody-hell_ , _what are two children doing in this place_? _They can't be more than four-years-old_!

They were white-faced and wide-eyed in terror. Arthur realized with a guilty start that they looked too much like Serge—and each other—to be anyone but his sons: twin brothers.

_His wife's children_ , _or someone else's_? _Orphans now_ , he thought regretfully, a fatherless orphan, himself. _I killed their father_ _and now I'm destroying their home._

A window smashed downstairs, the lead glass blown-out; the floorboards heated as the fire climbed, feeding on painted wood; and smoke continued to rise, seeping through the cracks. Arthur stepped forward and reached out, but the boys dodged him and ran, holding hands. " _Fuck_!" he cursed, chasing them. They were faster than they looked. "Oi, avast!" he shouted, his eyes watering as he descended the stairs. The room billowed with clouds of smoke. He ducked his head, holding an embroidered handkerchief over his nose and mouth. It smelled like cotton, a little like spearmint and sweat. _Where did those bloody ankle-biters go_? If he couldn't find them then he could just leave them. No one would know, after all. And they were a criminal's sons. Bad-blood. No one would want to take them in anyway.

_I should leave_ , he thought, coughing.

But when Arthur heard a high-pitched shriek, he followed it without a second thought for his own safety, and he found the little twins in a parlour, both doubled-over on their knees and coughing. The English captain made a fast decision and, despite the twins' protests, scooped them into his arms. They were lightweight and fragile, underfed and underdeveloped. He held them close against his chest and covered their heads with his heavy overcoat as he spirited them from the house.

It wasn't until later that he considered the consequences.

_Oh_ , _bloody-hell_ , he thought in defeat. _What in God's name am I supposed to do with them now_?

* * *

Arthur hid the boys beneath his lumpy overcoat as he approached his crew, keeping his back to them, pretending that he was carrying sacks of provisions. They were very small children, not much bigger than a couple sacks of sugarcane. _Please just keep quiet_ , he silently begged, feeling guilty and anxious. He held both boys on his lap in the longboat as it approached _The Rose_. Most of the men paid him little mind, despite his being the captain. He avoided the first-mate's suspicious gaze and stared at the horizon instead, feigning boredom. He couldn't let the crew know that he was taking orphans aboard a naval vessel. It was against protocol. _I should've just left them in the town_ , he thought logically. But looking at the portside town, lined with hotels, brothels, and alehouses—a dirty cesspool in the barbaric colonies—he didn't regret his choice to take them. As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, his conscience just couldn't leave two helpless boys to fend for themselves. If left there they would most likely be sold, catch sick, or starve to death. _I'll take them back to England_ , he decided, mentally plotting a plan-of-action. England was a civilized country. Once there, he could leave them in an orphanage, or find a suitable foster-home for them if he lied about their scandalous lineage. Bad blood was often reason enough to hang, or at least live ostracized from decent folk, their age notwithstanding.

_I shouldn't feel responsible for them_ , _but I do_. He had killed their father and burned down their home. Quite obviously they had suffered enough. _If only they would stop fussing_ —

" _Mm_!"

He clenched his teeth to gag a groan when one of the boys accidentally kneed him in the groin.

One boy was fussing and whining irritably; the other boy was so worryingly quiet and immobile that Arthur wondered if he had suffered asphyxiation from the smoke. He carried them aboard the ship (climbing was _very_ tricky while holding them both; fortunately, the Englishman was agile) and into his private cabin. It was a tidy and spacious room, but it would have been bigger if the portside hadn't been converted into a holding-cell.

As he entered, careful to lock the door behind him, Arthur was cautious of the man sleeping inside, lying on a cot. The last thing he needed was the Frenchman waking up to find Arthur playing nursemaid. He was a high-profile prisoner being transported from the colonies to England to stand trial for several charges. Arthur pulled the curtain closed over the cell's front. (He wanted to keep a close eye on the prisoner, not let the frog-eater watch him sleep!) Then he laid the boys down on his bed and fetched two cups of minty water, which had earlier been boiled for tea.

"Here now, drink this," he coaxed the drowsy blue-eyed boy.

The boy grasped it with pudgy hands soft with baby-fat and swallowed greedily, loud and sloppy. Arthur took a cotton handkerchief—a clean one—and wiped his dirty face, blackened with greasy smoke residue, which revealed apple-round cheeks and an egg-sized bruise the colour of blackberries. As he scrubbed (gently, now), he wondered how long it had been since the boy's last bath. Several weeks, he guessed.

_What a pity_ , he thought, studying the boy's face. _He really is a cute little thing_.

The four-year-old boy was undeniably attractive, but he showed definite signs of long-term malnourishment. His big cornflower-blue eyes were wide with fright as he surveyed the cabin. His feathery blonde hair needed cutting; it stuck up at odd angles. And though his skin was smooth and un-pocked by disease, his complexion was unhealthy-looking, too pale for his vibrant colouring. It made him look ill and hungry. But he was not without spirit. He whined in protest and slapped at Arthur's hands, spilling his cup in the process.

" _Fuck_!" Arthur cursed, but stopped abruptly when he saw tears bead in the boy's eyes, afraid of punishment. He sighed and tried again:

"It's okay, just an accident, nothing to cry about," he said soothingly as he refilled the cup.

As the blue-eyed boy drank, Arthur focused on the other.

He was paler and thinner than his brother, and he looked very sick. His skin was covered in cold sweat. Even through the smoke grime he showed evidence of physical abuse, so discoloured with ugly bruises ( _are those welts_?) that he looked more purple than white. Arthur swallowed the lump of unease in his throat as he pushed back the boy's long, pale-blonde curls to reveal his cherub face.

_His father did this to him_?

Arthur was no stranger to the feeling of beatings, both disciplinary and recreational, and he pitied both boys the experience.

"Come on, poppet, wake up," he said to the boy, shaking him.

The boy didn't make a sound, but his eyelids fluttered restlessly. He had effeminately long eyelashes, Arthur noticed. Very artistic.

"Come on now, sweetling," he repeated, lifting the boy's limp body in a one-armed hug to brace his back and head.

Still nothing.

"C'mon, err... little child?"

"Mattie," said the blue-eyed boy inarticulately. "His name is Mattie. My name is Alfwed."

"Matthew and Alfred?" Arthur guessed. Alfred nodded.

He looked at the solemn boy, taken aback by his sulky little voice. Alfred blinked and pouted behind his cup, but Arthur merely stared at him. He hadn't expected him to speak so coherently (mispronunciation aside), though he supposed that four-years-old was plenty old enough to know how to form basic sentences.

_Perhaps I only hoped he wouldn't speak_ , he thought, admitting fear. _What do I say to him in return_? _How should I talk to such small children_ , _especially one as frightened as him_?

Arthur didn't dislike children exactly, but having spent seven years at the academy and two years since then at sea, he had not been exposed to many. Despite having four brothers, he had no nieces or nephews, and no married acquaintances. (Arthur Kirkland was a rather solitary fellow.) And the filthy, begging brats one spotted running wildly in the colonies were more akin to dogs then civilized men. Doctoring two orphans—despite his lack of medical skill—was still much preferred to conversing with them. Arthur would have happily ignored little Alfred, but the boy looked forlornly at his unconscious brother, and sadly asked:

"Is Mattie dead?"

"No, no!" Arthur replied, hoping Alfred wouldn't cry. _Not yet_ , _anyway_. Feeling suddenly apprehensive about Matthew's state, he tried more fervently to rouse him.

"Come on now, poppet—uh, Matthew, sweetling, open your wee eyes," he said in a falsely cheerful tone. He slapped the boy's back and rubbed hard.

Finally, Matthew wheezed and began to cough, choking and gasping, his heart palpitating like a small bird's. Arthur was very careful of him. Birds, he knew, could literally die of fright. He patted the boy's back as he coughed-up black phlegm and then wiped his sweaty face clean. He pressed a cup of water to the parched lips and lifted the soft chin, forcing the boy to swallow. Seconds later, he was rewarded when Matthew opened his eyes, revealing striking violet.

Matthew frowned in confusion at Arthur, the stranger.

For a moment he simply studied the Englishman, wordless. Then he spotted Alfred—bruised, scared-looking Alfred—and his whole face twisted in panic. His small shoulders arched and he shrank into himself in an attempt to hide, trying to make himself a smaller target. His body seized, like a malfunctioning flintlock, and Arthur pitied him the defensive reaction, knowing it was habit.

"It's alright, wee lambs," he soothed, letting them link hands. Alfred's dirty fingernails dug shallow crescents into Matthew's skin, but the violet-eyed boy didn't seem to mind. "Don't be afraid of me. I'm Captain Arthur Kirkland of His Majesty's Royal Navy. I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe with me, lads, I promise."

Matthew fainted soon after waking and Alfred fell asleep minutes later in utter exhaustion, the last dregs of his strength spent. Arthur clumsily tucked them both into his bed, careful of their heads and pudgy little limbs, which flopped limply like a doll's. He felt equally irked and guilty about their presence; inconvenienced, yet unexpectedly tender-hearted. Gently he checked the boys' vitals, searching for symptoms of fever. He was unconvinced that they wouldn't die in the night.

_They're such fragile little things_. _I hope they survive._

An ocean voyage was treacherous, and a naval ship was no place for small children, riddled with danger and disease.

_How in hell am I going to hide them for six weeks_? he wondered, calculating the return journey to England.

He sunk tiredly into his stiff-backed desk-chair: desk crowded with books and wrinkled maps and scraps of blotted parchment, empty bottles, sticky with alcohol residue, and stale-smelling tobacco ash, and he clutched fistfuls of his hair in frustration.

" _Mon Dieu_ , those babies are absolutely _adorable_! Are they yours?"

Arthur flinched, and automatically said: "No."

The Frenchman had drawn back the curtain to look outside the cell into the modest cabin, and was staring at the moonlit bed, his curly ash-blonde head cocked in endearment, like an indulgent relative of the orphaned twins. "I love children," he proclaimed easily. "And those two are precious. I should have known they aren't yours," he added, smiling teasingly at Arthur.

But his good-humour was short-lived.

Soon, his handsome face sobered with worry. His tone became scolding: "But a naval vessel is no place for children, _Angleterre_. It's too dangerous."

"It's safer than where they're from, I assure you," replied Arthur, irked by the discriminate nickname; as if he was merely an extension of his country and not a person at all. "Go back to sleep, frog-eater."

"Francis," said the Frenchman, piqued. "We've been through this, _Angleterre_. My name is Francis Bonnefoi."

"You're a bloody pirate, I'll call you whatever I want."

Francis frowned in insult; Arthur clenched his fists.

A week ago Arthur had been fortunate enough to capture the infamous _Le Fleur-de-lis_ and her disreputable captain, Francis Bonnefoi. He was wanted by the crown for several crimes, the least of which was robbery. Arthur had been expecting a villain of the ripest sort and was subsequently disappointed by the Frenchman's obviously genteel upbringing. He was nothing more than a spoiled, rich aristocrat sating a foolhardy fancy to play pirate. If the rumours were true then Francis Bonnefoi had left his foster-home in Italy at a tender young age to reap havoc on the high-seas and had become something of a pest to the Royal Navy, which he had been dodging for nearly two years now. It was only a week ago when _Le Fleur-de-lis_ had crashed unexpectedly—accidentally—into _The Rose_ , while outrunning the eye of a hellish storm, that she and her tawdry captain had finally been captured. It was an unfortunate navigational error on Francis' part and a stroke of dumb-luck for Arthur. Arthur had pulled Francis from the wreck and listened to him wail as _Le Fleur-de-lis_ sank with what was left of her skeletal crew. He would have been pulled down too if Arthur hadn't rescued him. Though, rescue was a strong word in both of their opinions.

" _You should have let me drown_!" Francis had spat viciously, suffering the guilt of survival.

But the pirate's capture was worth more than his death, for now. If Captain Kirkland delivered the infamous outlaw to England to stand trial, he would distinguish himself among his elders. If properly strategized, it might even be worth an early promotion for the ambitious young Englishman. So instead of throwing the incorrigible Frenchman overboard—which took no small amount of self-restraint—Arthur had, instead, locked Francis in the cell in his cabin to personally supervise his transport. He didn't want to risk his prize in the brig below. Francis was Arthur's golden opportunity to prove his worth to the admiralty, and he refused to let the dramatic Frenchman ruin it by attempting suicide or some such nonsense before he could be tried, sentenced, and properly hung.

_That is_ , _if I don't kill him first_ , he thought, glaring at the cheeky pirate.

It had barely been a week, but his patience was threadbare. Francis loved to provoke Arthur. He considered it a game, testing the Englishman's temper, and would continue to play as long as he was worth more alive than dead. Arthur tried stoically to ignore him, but it was difficult. They spent too much time together in too small a space. Even though Francis was rarely let out of the cell, the Frenchman had a stage-presence no actor could rival. At least he was high-born, Arthur thought, considering the alternative. Francis was educated, well-spoken, and rather sophisticated compared to most of Arthur's crew. _It could be worse_ , he sighed, casually ignoring the fact that Francis was the first outlaw he had ever caught. Even half-drowned, the Frenchman had been stunningly attractive. He was twenty-three-years-old and in peak health, and he had a flirtatious nature that annoyed and flustered the secretly shy Englishman, to whom blatant displays of affection were _very_ uncomfortable. In fact, Arthur felt himself get hot beneath the collar whenever Francis flashed those laughing blue eyes at him. He made it look so easy, his expressions and movements so natural compared to Arthur, who wasn't very schooled at flirting.

Not that he _was_ flirting with the handsome pirate—or, even thinking about it. Heavens, no! But even Arthur could (secretly) acknowledge Francis' (infuriating) charm.

_It's only an observation_ , he thought pragmatically, _nothing that I'm even remotely interested in acting on. I'm much too busy for something as trivial as flirting anyway. Even if I could mimic his charm_ , _it wouldn't do me any good. I'm a naval captain. What would I even do with a wife_?

Arthur was satisfied with his current lifestyle. Or rather, he had resolved himself to it, and had dedicated too much time and energy to his career to let something as fleeting as romance distract him from his goals.

And yet—

The Frenchman's mocking grin somehow shook that resolve, as if he knew something about Arthur's life that Arthur did not. And Arthur hated it. He hated feeling like he was being constantly analysed by his own prisoner, like a chess piece beneath a skilled player's scrutiny. He dealt with it often enough in his profession because of his relative youth. All it did was make him want to fight; made him want to prove himself all the more.

_You should have just stayed in your fancy château_ , _you bloody frog-eater_. _You should have stayed_ , _wasting your spoiled life chasing girls and drinking yourself sick on the finest Italian wines. That's who you were born to be. You don't belong here. This_ —the open sea, the trilling of the colonies, the raging cannon-fire of naval supremacy— _is my world_ , _Francis Bonnefoi_ , _not yours._

Why Francis had left his privileged life to become a pirate was something that Arthur couldn't understand, or forgive.

_None of us chooses this life of sea-sickness and poverty_ , he thought enviously.

If he had a family awaiting his return somewhere, he would rethink his career in a heartbeat.

_But I don't. I don't have anyone waiting for me anywhere_.

Inadvertently, he caught himself staring at the orphaned boys, sound asleep in his bed. For a moment, he let himself smile. Then Francis said:

"Those poor babies are ill." His voice was heavy with sympathy. "If they're not yours, _Capitaine_ , then whose babies are they? Are they orphans?"

"Yes, but—"

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Captain?" called the first-mate. "We're ready to weigh anchor, sir."

Arthur jumped up. "Uh, yes! Just a minute!" he said, hurrying to the bedside. If he covered the boys with a blanket, would anyone notice?

" _Bollocks_!" he cursed, scanning the cabin.

Francis reached through the bars of his cell. "Give them to me, I'll hide them," he offered. " _Vite_ , _Capitaine_!"

"I just rescued those boys, I'm not giving them to a fucking pirate," said Arthur offhandedly, searching for a serviceable place to hide them. He eyed a large trunk, then shook his head. It was already filled-to-bursting anyway.

Francis exhaled impatiently. "If the crew finds the babies, then they'll insist you take them ashore at the first port. What is it, Tortuga? Then what will you do, _Capitaine_? A trade-route town in the colonies is a dangerous place, hardly fit for rats let alone children! If left there, they'll get sick, or starve, or worse—"

"Yes, I know!" Arthur snapped, feeling rushed. Panicked. The first-mate knocked again, harder this time. " _In a minute_! _"_ Arthur yelled. Alfred flinched in his sleep, frowning. Arthur lifted him and glanced at Francis, who nodded in encouragement. He waved his hands urgently, arms outstretched.

"I may be a liar and a thief and a whole assortment of other things, but I wouldn't dream of hurting a child," he promised.

Arthur quickly weighed his options, glancing between the cabin's door and the sincerity in Francis' blue eyes.

"Fine," he growled. He fished for his keys and unlocked the cell, thrusting Alfred into Francis' waiting arms. Then he hurried back to the bed and collected Matthew, whose violet eyes flew open in shock. "No, no, it's alright," he said as he stroked the boy's head. "Don't cry, please stay quiet!"

Matthew's lower lip trembled.

" _Oh_ , _les cher petits_ ," Francis soothed, taking the boy from Arthur. He held Matthew snug against his chest, and rocked him gently as he rubbed his back. "Hush-hush, you and your brother are safe. Alfred is right here, see?" Timidly Mathew lifted his tearful eyes. Arthur was afraid he would start wailing or scream, but he only nodded. "It's okay, _chéri_ , don't be afraid. I'm here. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you," said Francis calmly. His voice was as smooth as golden honey as he settled back down onto the cot with both boys. He wore a sanguine smile as he looked up at Arthur.

Arthur, who merely stared back in shock.

How had Francis managed to soothe the boys so effortlessly? Was it his voice?

_He's doing exactly what I did_ , _isn't he_? _Why are they responding so much better to him_?

Arthur's envy was short-lived, however. A third and final bang on the cabin's door demanded his attention.

"Don't make a sound," he warned Francis as he pulled the heavy old curtain closed, hiding the cell's interior.

Before he left, he heard Francis' honey-smooth voice whisper:

" _Bonne chance_ , _Capitaine_."

* * *

It was after midnight when Arthur finally returned to the refuge of his cabin, exhausted. He had completely forgotten about the boys until he heard the sound of paper-soft snores. Curiously, he pulled back the curtain and peeked inside.

Francis was asleep on his back, his head cocked sideways on a single lumpy pillow, with a small boy curled under each languid arm. His hold on them was loose, yet secure—ready to scoop them up if danger struck. Alfred was snoring, open-mouthed; Matthew slept with his head bowed and hugged Francis like a stuffed-toy. The sight was so domestic that it took Arthur off-guard.

_They look like a father and his sons_ , he thought.

A smile tugged at his lips, but it vanished the instant Francis opened his eyes.

"I thought I felt suddenly cold," he said, offering the Englishman a sleepy grin. "Are you watching me sleep, _Capitaine_?"

" _No_ ," Arthur denied, blushing in displeasure. Curtly, he fit his key into the cell's lock and reached down. "I'll take the lads now—"

" _No_!" Francis recoiled. He hugged the boys close. "I mean... they're asleep. You don't want to wake them up, do you? They're so very tired, the poor things, and this little baby," he smiled affectionately down at Alfred, "has quite a healthy set of lungs. Just leave them be, it's not a bother. I think they're sweet."

"Oh, do you? Well I _would_ hate to inconvenience you, frog," said Arthur sarcastically. But he was too tired to argue. He yawned deeply and retreated. "Fine, play father for the night then. As long as you keep them quiet, I don't care," he lied, feeling oddly excluded.

That said, he dropped the curtain and undressed to his sleeping-clothes, folding his uniform over the back of his desk-chair, and then turned down the bed-sheets, unchanged since the boys had slept there. His bed was filthy, the cotton sheets caked with streaks of grime and smoke residue, and damp from the boys' wet clothes. It felt clammy.

"Oh, bloody-hell," Arthur sighed, and face-planted into a pillow.


	3. Two

**BONNEFOI**

The next day Francis watched in amusement as Arthur fought Alfred's whiny protests as he struggled to undress the squirming child.

He was an ignorant caretaker. It was only too obvious that he lacked any experience with children. He was too gentle, and then too rough. Too soft, and then too harsh. He started sympathetic, and then barked orders. He spoke to the boys like babies, cooing at them, and then like adults, as if they understood the situation. Everything that Arthur did was an experiment, trying to find an appropriate balance, and every time he utterly failed to do so. Francis could only shake his head; half-amused, half-horrified.

_Don't you have younger siblings or relatives_? _Don't you know anything about children_?

Francis found himself remembering his own adopted family with fondness and regret. The two little Italians wouldn't be all that much older than Alfred and Mathieu by now.

He snorted when Alfred's pudgy fist suddenly punched Arthur in the face, producing a whine from both of them.

"What are you going to do with them?" he asked.

"What does it look like? I'm trying to— _Ah_ , _fuck_!—bathe them!" Arthur growled, pulling Alfred's shirt off over his greasy head.

The red-faced boy puffed-out his cheeks and shook his balled fists, proclaiming in a squeaky voice:

" _I don't wanna_!"

In contrast, Mathieu sat wrapped in a heavy blanket, naked underneath, still and silent and awaiting further instruction. His face was vacant, like someone who had accepted his fate and would prefer to get the unpleasantness over with quickly rather than try to fight the inevitable. He appeared to be well-behaved, but Francis was worried. The violet-eyed boy hadn't yet spoken a single word. He was the quietest child Francis had ever encountered. Mathieu was the epitome of be-seen-and-not-heard; he would have been a nursemaid's dream. But he had no fight, and that's what concerned Francis. Young boys ought to have some fight in them, like Alfred did, but Mathieu was hollow. And such a little thing, too. Francis hoped that he was well, but he honestly didn't know if he should blame Mathieu's demeanor on illness or trauma. In secret, he hoped for the former so that the boy might be healed of it.

A large copper washtub sat in the middle of the cabin's floor. It had been filled with hot water from the kettle and steam now billowed from beneath the lid. The cabin-boy had hurried back-and-forth several times to fill it.

Arthur removed the lid, then lifted Mathieu up first.

"Alright, poppet, time to get into the tub."

" _Capitaine_ , wait—!" Francis started, but too late.

Mathieu shrieked when his toes touched the surface.

Arthur pulled him back up and held him aloft in shock. Alfred, ever his brother's champion, kicked Arthur's shin, and yelled:

" _Let Mattie go_!"

Arthur blinked and looked helplessly from Alfred to Mathieu, whose lips were pursed and whose eyes were squeezed shut.

Francis sighed.

"You can't just drop a baby into steaming water, _Capitaine_ , it's too hot for him. His skin is very sensitive," he explained. "Just look at him, he's beet-red. You've scared the poor thing."

"Oh. Oh, I see. I didn't think—that is, I... err..."

Arthur dithered as he rewrapped Mathieu in the blanket and sat him down on the bed. Alfred crawled across the uneven mattress—his bare rump in the air, like a kitten—to comfort his brother. He rubbed Mathieu's back and glared accusingly up at Arthur.

_Good luck getting either of them into the tub now_ , Francis thought, knowing how stubborn children could be. For their sake, he said: "Do you want my help?"

"What, let you out?" Arthur eyed the caged Frenchman skeptically. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Rather than answer, Francis merely huffed in exasperation.

"We're on a ship." He gestured aimlessly. " _Where_ am I going to go? You don't honestly think me so desperate to be rid of your sordid company that I would jump overboard, do you?

"Look," he said diplomatically, "you're obviously new to parenting, but don't punish the boys out of spite. Let me help you. I've taken care of many of babies before. I adore children," he smiled earnestly.

Arthur considered Francis for a long, tense minute. Francis thought he saw a flicker of regret—even envy—before the captain surrendered.

"Oh, fine," he growled. He unlocked the cell and let Francis out, warning him not to attempt an escape. "I'm watching you."

"I quiver at the thought," replied Francis sarcastically.

Arthur bristled, but Francis waved dismissively at him. His attention was already on the two wide-eyed boys sitting side-by-side on the captain's bed.

" _Bonjour_ , _mes chéries_ ," he said, kneeling to look at them face-to-face.

Alfred squeezed Mathieu's hand, and said: "Hewo, Mr. Fwenchman."

Francis pursed his lips to prevent an affectionate coo. _They're so cute_! He really did adore children and had always wanted his own. Before he could stop himself, he glanced back at Arthur, wondering if the Englishman had heard the adorable mispronunciation fall clumsily from Alfred's mouth, wanting to share it with him, to celebrate the child's cuteness, but Arthur was sitting at his desk, looking sulky. Francis frowned at him, then refocused on the boys.

He talked _to_ Alfred and _at_ Mathieu while they waited for the bathwater to cool. Alfred was receptive to his friendliness, but Mathieu kept his eyes downcast and his lips upturned in a pout. He certainly was a determined little thing, strong-willed in his own quiet way. The bruises on his skin suggested that his silence was a defense mechanism, much like Alfred's aggression. So Francis began with Alfred, hoping that his encouragement—seeing Alfred so clean and happy—would relax Mathieu.

Francis lifted Alfred into the washtub and scrubbed at his grimy skin until it was shiny pink, making the little boy squirm and sputter and giggle. But he sucked in a gasp when Francis touched his swollen cheek, which made the Frenchman's heart ache. He, himself, had never been struck as a child. On the contrary, he had been rather spoiled. He knew that he and his foster-brothers had lived a privileged childhood, and because of that it was easy to forget that not everyone had. Not everyone had grown-up in a safe, loving household of plenty. Arthur certainly hadn't. He was much too competitive to have known excess.

Francis towelled Alfred off and left him to dress.

"I can dwess myself, Mr. Fwenchman," he said proudly, tugging on one of Arthur's shirts inside-out.

Francis suppressed a chuckle as he lifted Mathieu, who instinctively tensed.

_Is he afraid_ , _or in pain_? _Both_ , he soon realized.

Cleaning Mathieu made Francis feel sick. The ugly evidence of abuse was clear: the boy was sore and bruised and afraid. Tears welled in his violet eyes, but he bit his lip to keep from making a sound. Francis tried to be as gentle as possible, but Mathieu's discomfort was plain.

_You don't trust me_ , _do you_ , _Mathieu_? _You're much too clever a child_. _You won't be fooled by smiles and kind words_.

The physical abuse—the bruises and welts—was sad, but it was sadder still that Mathieu didn't resist Francis. There was no fight in him, no desire to defend himself. It had been beaten out in favour of frightened obedience. To distract both of them, Francis talked incessantly:

"You're a lovely child, Mathieu. You have such fine curls, _French curls_ ," he smiled. "Has anyone ever told you that before, _chéri_? And such big, striking eyes! I've never seen eyes that colour before. You really are a beauty, darling. You and Alfred both. You'll both be heartbreakers when you grow-up, I can tell." He tapped the boy's nose playfully, but Mathieu merely stared skeptically at him.

Alfred yawned. "I'm a be, um... weally stwong when I'm big," he said, crawling into Arthur's bed and nestling down for a self-instructed nap.

"Yes," Francis agreed, draping a blanket atop him, "I'm sure you'll be the very strongest, Alfred."

Pleased, Alfred snuggled down and closed his eyes. A minute later, he was fast-asleep.

As Francis dressed Mathieu—who, evidently, had no qualms about being manipulated like a ragdoll—Arthur said: "I'm going to order for lunch from the galley. What should they eat?"

"Vegetables," Francis advised. "Canned greens, if you've got any. Lemons, too. And milk. Babies need milk, and these two look like they've been malnourished their entire lives. It's lucky they're strong. They've got good genes, criminal or not. But they both need medicine. He's feverish," he explained, holding Mathieu.

Arthur placed a hand on Mathieu's forehead, feigning indifference (and failing entirely). It was obvious that he was concerned. _Why hide it_? Francis thought.

"Yes, alright. I'll be right back," he said. "Don't go anywhere, frog-eater."

Francis rolled his eyes. He cradled Mathieu, who rested limply against his shoulder, and he paced around the cabin.

_I wonder what he plans to do with them_ , he thought. _Does he intend to adopt them_? It was unlikely, but a part of Francis really hoped that Arthur would. _He's not as bad a parent as he thinks. At least he genuinely cares about their well-being. At least he's trying to help_ , _which is more than what most people would do for orphans_. He hated the thought of Alfred and Mathieu being abandoned like strays, like he, himself, had once been. He was lucky to have been fostered by a benevolent family, of course, but it didn't change the fact that he had been—was still—alone in the world. He didn't want that for the boys.

Francis shifted Mathieu's feather-light weight. The boy had fallen into a fitful sleep, his cheek pressed to the Frenchman's shoulder. It felt good to hold the boy, to rock him. It felt good to be needed.

When Arthur returned, carrying a tureen on a tray, Francis bluntly asked:

"Are you going to adopt the boys when we reach England?"

"What—? No, of course not! I couldn't, not really. I mean, I—Well, it's really none of your concern, is it, frog-eater?"

As he talked, Arthur set the tray down and began absently smoothing back Alfred's cowlick. When he noticed that he was doing it, however, he stopped.

"I'll have already wasted more than a month playing nursemaid by the time we make port. And I can't adopt them, besides. My career is in the Royal Navy, I can't be responsible for children. Who would look after them? I can't just be..."

Alfred yawned, stretching out his pudgy arms.

Francis smiled at Arthur's hesitance. "They're precious, aren't they?" he said.

The Englishman's face had softened. He looked from snoring Alfred to Mathieu in Francis' arms. "They look so... helpless."

"No," Francis disagreed. "They're young, but they've already seen the dark side of life. It's very sad. They're not helpless, but they _do_ need someone to take care of them. They're only babies, after all. They deserve a home," he hinted. "You won't give them to an orphanage, will you?"

He just couldn't bear the thought of Alfred and Mathieu in a cold, unfeeling orphanage, growing-up without a home and family to love and nurture them.

"There are too many horrible people in the world who like to hurt defenceless children, especially those with nobody to protect them," he added, staring pointedly at Arthur.

Really, he couldn't make it any clearer, could he? He shamelessly wanted to guilt the stubborn Englishman into keeping the boys, or at least not abandoning them. With no relatives or family-name, they would get lost.

_Well_ —? he silently urged.

After a long, pregnant pause, Arthur gestured to the tureen.

"It's soup," he said, turning away. "Make sure they both eat it. And here's medicine. There's, uh... enough for you too, frog-eater. Of the soup, I mean, so... eat."

Then he left.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Arthur let the cool sea breeze clear his head, smelling like fish and brine. Seagulls wheeled overhead; they weren't too far from shore. On-deck his crew worked diligently, like a machine. Captain Kirkland kept a good, well-ordered ship and his crew were as obedient as military men were expected to be, at least on the surface. Here, standing at the helm of _The Rose_ , he trusted his judgement. He knew what he was doing, and had been doing it for years. But back there, alone in his cabin with a mocking pirate and two boys barely out of swaddling clothes, he didn't. He didn't have a clue, and it frightened him. It was uncharted territory.

His family had never been very domestic. His mother had died young, just after Arthur's younger brothers—twins—were born. And his father... Well, the truth was that Arthur didn't know who his father really was. He and his brothers had all been sired by different men from different corners of the British Isles. His older brothers seemed to remember the two men they had called father, but not Arthur. They seemed to suspect something about his lineage; sometimes they hinted at it, but Arthur's disinterest was obvious. In his opinion, it didn't matter whose son he was. Father or not, the man had not parented him. Why was blood so important, anyway? He (secretly) loved his brothers. They had been all he had as a child, but he had barely seen them as adults. All five brothers had been sent to live in different places with relatives after their mother had died. Arthur had been sent off to boarding-school when he was eight-years-old. He had never known the home or family that Francis had.

_It doesn't matter_ , he thought. _I turned out just fine on my own. I've always been alone_ , _but that's fine. It's what made me strong. I can take care of myself. I don't need anything from anyone. I'm the most successful of my brothers_ , _after all._

_And the most lonely._

His bravado deflated. He couldn't lie to himself and deny that he sometimes wished he wasn't sleeping every night alone. As much as he liked his personal-space; as much as he took pride in self-reliance; as much as he tried not to care that nobody talked to him, or played with him, or invited him out; as much as he pretended that he didn't want to be part of the group, he couldn't deny that he was lonely. He secretly wished that he had somewhere, some _one_ to return home to. Someone he loved, waiting for him. Someone who loved _him_ in return.

He thought of Francis holding little Matthew and how strangely tender it had looked, and he thought of little Alfred stretching in his sleep, rosy-cheeked and dreaming.

Arthur shook the thought from his head and got back to work.

By the time he returned to the cabin it was late, but Francis was still pacing lethargically back-and-forth with Matthew in his arms, rubbing his back as tears rolled down the boy's sickly-pale cheeks. Arthur's heart clenched as he hurried over. He felt the boy's forehead, which was hot and sweaty.

"Did you feed him? Has he had enough to drink? Did you give him the medicine? Why isn't he getting better? It looks like he's getting worse!"

"I gave him medicine, but he wouldn't eat. I think it's heat-sickness. You found him in an attic, didn't you? In this heat? The poor thing's dehydrated, and that hot bath didn't help. He needs to sleep and recover his strength, but he's restless. I feel so bad. I wish there was something I could do to ease his suffering, but—"

Arthur plucked Matthew from Francis while the Frenchman was midsentence. Francis started to protest, but Arthur silenced him.

"You're starting to look haggard," he said bluntly. "Get some sleep. I'll take care of him. Did _you_ eat?"

Francis surrendered with a nod. "I ate with Alfred. He's asleep again. He sleeps a lot." He chuckled nervously and waved at the bed, where an Alfred-sized starfish lay sprawled beneath the blanket. Then he turned back, blue eyes soft and earnest, and said: " _Merci_ , _Capitaine_."

Arthur watched Francis drag his feet back to the cell and lie down on the cot without undressing or covering himself. He considered closing the door and locking Francis inside, but he didn't. Instead, he focused on Matthew. He rubbed the boy's back to soothe him, and spoke softly. "It's alright, sweetling. I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay." Arthur had experienced heat-sickness when he had first sailed to the Caribbean, too. "Don't be scared. You just need to rest. I've got you. I'm not going to leave you alone, so just rest." Gently, he sat down on the bed beside Alfred, who rolled over. Arthur was tired, but Matthew was clinging to his neck. He made the boy drink water, smoothed back his damp hair, and was grateful when Matthew finally fell asleep on his chest. His temperature was worrying, though. He was burning-up, as if he had a fever. It made sleeping uncomfortable, but Arthur didn't want to move and risk waking either of them. To make matters worse, Alfred snuggled up close to Arthur and hugged him in sleep, drooling.

_Oh_ , _bloody-hell_ , he thought in defeat. _This is going to be a long night_.

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

Francis awoke in the night.

The cabin was stuffy, so he got up to open the porthole window above the captain's bed. That's when he saw them: Arthur and the boys, fast-asleep. It was an unexpectedly sweet sight. They looked so peaceful, despite Mathieu's fever and Arthur's awkward, crooked position. Francis leant down and took the liberty of wiping Mathieu's hot brow; of re-tucking Alfred's arms into his oversized shirt; and—he hesitated—of propping a pillow behind Arthur's head. He touched the Englishman's temple with the back of his knuckles and pushed back his blonde hair, the touch of which surprised him. It looked coarse, but it was actually feathery-soft. His skin was pale, freckled, and smooth to the touch. His eyelashes were not long, but they were thick, casting spiky shadows over his cheeks. And his mouth—Arthur slept with his mouth slack and slightly parted, breathing slow and rhythmic. His lips were thin, but flushed a soft rosebud red.

_He's exhausted_ , Francis thought.

It was strange feeling sympathy, even affection, for his captor, but not unpleasant. Arthur was far from the villain Francis had imagined (feared) he would be. He might've acted the tough seafarer, but he was incredibly tender-hearted as well. He hadn't ever abused his position, which was more than Francis had expected from the Royal Navy; or, from any man with power, in Francis' experience. Arthur was at least courteous if not always respectful. He might have been neglectful at times; inexperienced, perhaps—he _was_ quite young—but he certainly wasn't cruel. Francis had found himself hypnotized by the Englishman's passion more than once. Not his short temper, but his determination. He was desperate to prove himself to his superiors, that much was obvious.

_It's kind of—cute_.

_And he's kind of—handsome_ , Francis admitted, staring down at the defenceless English navy captain, awash in moonlight.

Taking a risk, he reached down and dragged his index-finger across Arthur's face, ghosting over his lips. He pulled back when Arthur suddenly inhaled and murmured incoherently, his eyes squeezed shut, eyelashes quivering. He shifted and unconsciously hugged Mathieu against his chest; Mathieu buried his face in the crook of Arthur's neck. Francis smiled and cocked his head.

_You don't sleep very well_ , _do you_ , _Arthur_? _You're too restless_ , _too unsettled_ , _too stressed. You need to relax._

Gently he finger-combed Arthur's hair, which flopped back over his forehead, not unlike Alfred's.

_And you desperately need a haircut_.

He leant down and kissed the crown of Mathieu's head and then Alfred's.

" _Bonne nuit_ , _chéris_ ," he whispered to them.

Then he went back to his cell.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

_You want to cut my hair_?" Arthur repeated in disbelief.

He was holding Alfred on his knee, re-buttoning the boy's oversized shirt while Alfred pouted. ("I can do it mysewf!" he raged.)

"While I appreciate the offer, frog," he said sarcastically, "I'll respectfully decline. Besides, I was thinking of... maybe... growing-out my hair... like... yours..."

Francis pursed his lips. " _Capitaine_ , don't take this the wrong way," he said delicately, "but you don't have the bone structure to wear your hair long like mine."

Teasingly, he flipped his curls over his shoulder. They tumbled gently like a song, and looked sculpted when they landed. The Frenchman had the hair of a poet's princess and he bloody well knew it.

Arthur frowned indignantly in reply. He felt his cheeks heating. " _Well_ , _it was just a thought_..." he muttered in embarrassment.

Then: Francis' hand in his hair.

"You have a nice face," he said smoothly, elegant fingertips hovering close to his skin. "You shouldn't hide so much of it. Besides," he tugged a strand of wheat-blonde hair playfully, "it just looks messy like this. Let me cut it for you, _Capitaine_ , _please_ —?"

_I have a nice face_? Arthur felt himself blush redder, felt his heart-rate quicken—until Francis added:

"I'm the one who has to look at you, after all."

"Oh, fuck off, frog."

* * *

Alfred giggled as he raced back-and-forth across the cabin floor. He had set up the chess pieces like opposing armies and was playing as if they were lead soldiers, marching them across the floorboards in attack. Matthew was lying in bed, watching him play with a wan smile. His temperature had come down, but Arthur had confined him to strict bed-rest until he could finish a meal without getting sick.

The ship pitched suddenly, flying across the choppy waves, and Alfred tumbled head-first into a cupboard. Arthur flinched.

"Alfred, be careful!" he scolded in worry, half-rising from his desk chair, but Francis pulled him back by the shoulders. He heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed his arms defensively. "I don't know about this," he said, eyeing the scissors and razor-blade in the Frenchman's hands.

"Oh, why ever not?" Teasing, Francis held the blade at Arthur's jugular. He leant down and, almost cheek-to-cheek, whispered: "What are you so afraid of? Don't you trust me, _Capitaine_?"

Arthur's stomach involuntarily fluttered. Francis had such a beautiful voice: husky and honeyed and utterly seductive. It was a bedroom voice, always, whether there was a bed present or not. And it made Arthur more nervous than the razor-blade at his throat.

"Just get on with it," he muttered, turning his face away.

He tried to ignore the feel of Francis' nimble fingers as they combed back his hair and touched his neck. He tried to ignore how good it felt to be touched, even so innocently. Human-contact was a rare and fleeting thing on a naval vessel. Strands of feathery wheat-blonde hair fell onto his shoulders as the scissors snipped artfully, but Francis dusted them off. Then, without a word of warning, he leant down and blew stray strands off the back of Arthur's neck, his breath hot on Arthur's skin. Arthur inhaled sharply and held his breath; it took everything in him not to flinch. His heart was pounding, now. He clenched his hands in his lap and tried to maintain his composure, but a familiar feeling stirred in his stomach, then migrated, awakening his lower-body.

_Oh_ , _fuck_! _Now_? _Why now_ —?

He closed his eyes and tried to quell it with unpleasant thoughts, before Francis took notice. However—

"Are you sick too, Mr. Captain?" asked Alfred curiously. He pointed: "Your face is all wed."

Francis chuckled softly, and Arthur blushed even redder. "I'm fine, it's just hot in here. Are you done yet?" he snapped at the pirate-cum-hairdresser.

Francis ruffled Arthur's freshly-cut hair. "Yes, I'm done." He held up a mirror. "Do you like it?"

Arthur stared at his green-eyed reflection. It revealed so much more of his freckled face, which he felt self-conscious of—he hated his freckles; they made him look boyish—but he had to admit that Francis was an apt stylist. There was something undeniable about his artful eye and talented hands. The length and cut suited Arthur's fine-boned face and fey-like features quite well.

"It's fine," he said offhandedly.

"Yes," Francis agreed. "You can see your eyes now."

Arthur swallowed a lump.

Alfred said: "Your face is wed again, Mr. Captain! Maybe you should lie down wiff Mattie."

* * *

Days turned into weeks and Arthur managed to keep the boys a secret from everyone except for the cook ("I need you to prepare meals for four people, not two. Two extras. Well, two _small_ extras."); the physician ("Matthew's fever has abated, but both boys still need medicinal care."); and the cabin-boy, who—as it happened—was quite fond of children ("Captain, are they your sons?" he asked. "Uh, yes," Arthur lied, "but don't tell anyone. I'm taking them to England."). Arthur continued to work long hours, neglecting sleep. He didn't believe in leaving his crew to govern themselves, but he did begin to spend an inordinate amount of time working from his cabin. In addition to captaining a ship, he had decided that the boys required structure in their lives, which came from lessons, and Francis agreed. He and Arthur took turns schooling the boys in reading and writing (Arthur in English; Francis in French), mathematics, history, geography, and—since it was so easily available—marine science and navigation. It was good for the boys to learn and it gave them and Francis something to do.

One night, Arthur returned to his cabin late to find the window thrown open and Francis clutching both boys around their bellies, sitting them on the ledge. He was pointing to the stars.

"Look, Captain!" Alfred showed Arthur in excitement. "That one's cawled the Nowth Star!"

"Is it? That's very clever of you, Alfred," Arthur praised. The boy's chest puffed-up proudly. "Are you learning the constellations too, Matthew?"

Matthew nodded, mesmerized by the crowded night sky. Confined to an attic until then, neither boy had ever seen so many stars.

"Do you think he'll ever speak?" Arthur asked Francis later, after the boys were asleep. "You don't think that there's something physically wrong with him, do you? The doctor said that he was fine, but..." He worried about what Matthew's father had done to him. "It's not right." Arthur clenched his fists. Thinking about Serge infuriated him: he _hated_ that man. _How could someone be so cruel to his own children_?

"I think Mathieu will be fine," Francis reassured him. "He's young and traumatised, but he'll grow out of it if we teach him—"

He stopped abruptly. Sadness filled his blue eyes, knowing that he wouldn't be around to teach Matthew and Alfred forever. But before Arthur could comment, Francis changed the topic. He held out the boys' workbooks to show him.

"See? Mathieu is such a clever boy. He's only four, but he can already write in both English and French. Just simple words, of course, but it's more than most children his age. His penmanship isn't bad, either. He's a very good listener and has a good memory. He remembers almost everything he's taught. He's just shy. He's still scared," he said in sympathy. "He needs self-confidence more than anything.

"Alfred, on the other hand—" Francis chuckled indulgently, "—likes to do things his own way. He's just as intelligent as Mathieu, but he's not nearly as interested in school. He remembers only what he finds interesting and he's impatient. As much as I try to teach him, he just doesn't want to learn French. It's really a shame because he's got so much energy, and he's so inventive. He has a wonderful imagination and the confidence to put it to use. He's also very strong. He wants to do things physically, not academically. He would be a natural at sports if he could play. And he would love to go out on-deck and learn how to sail—"

"No, absolutely not," Arthur interrupted, handing back the workbooks. "It's much too dangerous to take him on-deck. He's only four. Besides, I don't want everyone to know about them."

_Or you_ , he added privately.

His crew already thought it was odd that Arthur wanted to keep the condemned pirate so close.

_What would they think of me if they knew he was walking around freely like a guest_ , _not a captive_? _If he were a woman then nobody would care_. _They'd think he was my bedmate_ , _criminal or not_ , _and wouldn't ask any questions. But he's not a woman. He's a man_. _And sodomy is illegal._

Arthur Kirkland had always—for the most part—been a good, law-abiding citizen. He respected the law and its practises because his career, his future success, depended on it. However, watching Francis teach and care for the boys; watching him wander around the cabin making a mess (he was _so_ untidy!); watching him sit idly by the window with his head cocked and a book propped open against his bent knee, Arthur found his heart thawing to him. In truth, he had gotten used to Francis' constant presence in the cabin and would feel lonely without him. Six weeks was a long time to be sailing and Arthur wasn't close with anyone in his crew. He preferred to maintain the air of authority on-deck, which was perhaps why he felt so unbothered by Francis and the boys, because he got to be a different person with them.

_Is this who I really am_? he wondered, watching Francis kiss the boys goodnight. _Is this who I want to be_?

He was glad for Francis' assistance with the boys. Arthur would not have been able to give them half as much care and attention on his own, which they needed at such a tender young age. The Frenchman was more than happy to fill the void left by Arthur's absence. He was eager and attentive and loved playing father. Besides which, the boys responded to him enthusiastically. Francis adored them and they loved him in return.

_And why not_? Arthur thought, feeling a little jealous. _He's the kind of person who's easy to love._

Francis was a clever, fun-loving, and risqué individual who never doubted himself; the kind of person others were drawn to, however briefly; the kind of person who was always at the centre-of-attention, and who made and lost friends easily, flippantly; the kind of person who never worried if he was liked or disliked, because even his enemies admired him in some way. He certainly left more of an impression than Arthur did, but they were the same at their cores—weren't they? They were both independent. Selfish, even. Francis had chosen a life of piracy and uncertainty, wherein his eternal priority was taking care of himself. And yet—

Francis' hands lingered lovingly as he tucked Alfred and Matthew into Arthur's bed, his lips pressed gently to their baby-soft heads.

—if you were lucky enough to be loved by Francis, then he was the kindest, most adoring person that Arthur had ever met.

" _Bonne nuit_ , _Capitaine_ ," he said, returning to his cell.

He paused in the doorway and glanced at Arthur over-the-shoulder, moonbeams alighting his hair. It made his stubble look silver.

"Make sure you eat something half-decent and get some sleep, you'll get sick if you don't. You already look exhausted— _haggard_ ," he recycled Arthur's word. "If you don't rest, you're going to age prematurely."

Arthur's envy melted into annoyance— _I can take care of myself_! _I don't need you hovering like a bloody mother-hen_!—but it faded quickly as he conceded to Francis' advice. It was nice to know that someone was concerned about him, even if it was a French pirate. He couldn't deny that Francis was right: he _was_ exhausted. Arthur felt tired in the very marrow of his bones. But he couldn't sleep yet, there was still work to be done.

There was _always_ work to be done.

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

Seriously, _Capitaine_ , you're going to get sick!" Francis nagged. Ignoring personal-boundaries, he placed his hand on Arthur's forehead.

The Englishman's complexion was flushed, except for the dark half-circles under his eyes. He had lost weight in the past couple weeks, which—skinny already—he really couldn't afford, and he was smoking more than usual. At this rate, he would be out of cigarettes long before _The Rose_ reached England.

"Please ingest something that is not tobacco or grog," Francis chastised, plucking the cigarette from Arthur's hand. He tossed it out the window, provoking a fit of outrage.

"Oi! _What the fuck_? Don't you dare tell me what to do, _pirate_!"

The Englishman's Lincoln-green eyes flashed, bright and sleep-deprived. He looked a little wild. He _behaved_ a little wild, stressed and overworked and quick to start a fight. Francis had gotten used to bickering with Arthur—he had even come to enjoy it—but Arthur was tense. Every time Francis drew too close or touched him he grew hostile, now, angrily dismissive of Francis' aid. " _Don't touch me_!" he would snap, shying away.

_I'm sure he doesn't hate me_ , Francis thought. If that were true, then Francis would not be allowed out of the cell. _He's tired_ , _but_ _he's acting strange toward me. Only me_ , _not the boys or the crew. Either he really does value his personal space more than the average person_ , _or something else is wrong. Should I ask him_? he wondered, trying to decode the reticent Englishman.

Francis was generally good at reading people, but he didn't like puzzles, and Arthur Kirkland had become a very frustrating puzzle.

_Why won't he just say what he needs_?

The answer came unexpectedly a day later, when Francis accidentally fell against Arthur and they crashed to the floor.

It was windy and the waves rocked the ship, challenging even a sea-captain's balance. It tilted so sharply and suddenly that neither man had a chance to prevent a collision. Francis slammed into Arthur as their legs tangled and went out from under them. In reflex, he cupped the back of Arthur's head to protect it from the floor as they landed. " _Oof_ —!" The ship righted itself, and Francis found himself wrapped around Arthur, their limbs tangled, lying face-to-face. And he froze. His heart pounded and his breath hitched. _Is he going to punch me_? he wondered, but it was a shallow concern, because the look on Arthur's face was just as awed as Francis felt. Awed, because he couldn't believe how _good_ it felt to hold Arthur, to have the Englishman lying prostrate under him. So close, Francis could count the freckles on Arthur's face. (He loved those boyish freckles.) He could feel the heat of Arthur's body, feel his breath on his lips, could see uncertainty in those beautiful, feral green eyes. Arthur's chest was rising and falling rapidly, pressed against Francis, his heart beating madly, and their lower-bodies—

_Oh._

" _G-get off_!" Arthur yelled, pushing Francis. In trying to struggle free, he pressed his erection against Francis' thigh. " _Fuck_! _Get off of me_!"

" _Pardon_ ," said Francis in disbelief. Quickly, he crawled off of Arthur. "The waves—" he stammered. "I didn't mean to fall on—That was an accident," he clarified in apology. "I'm sorry."

"Fine, whatever!" Arthur snapped, blushing in angry embarrassment. He climbed to his feet and turned away to attend to the boys, whom he had woken with his shout.

* * *

That night, Francis couldn't sleep. He laid on his back on the small cot, his arms folded beneath his head, trying not to stare across the room to where Arthur was sleeping fitfully. He couldn't stop thinking about how wonderful it had felt to hold Arthur, or how unbearably _cute_ the man's shyness was. It had taken him off-guard, but Francis wished that he hadn't reacted so naively to Arthur's erection, like an inexperienced youth, especially since he had felt himself stiffen in reply. Maybe he was just desperate for intimacy—he longed for that kind of intimate physical contact again—but he couldn't deny that the whole incident had solidified a feeling he had been fighting for weeks:

He wanted to fuck Captain Arthur Kirkland. A lot.

Just thinking about it after being deprived for so long made him hard.

_Fuck_ , _he'd kill me if he knew_ , he thought, reaching into his trousers. He pressed a hand to his lips to keep quiet, grunting softly as he worked his own length, but received little satisfaction from his efforts.

" _Merde_ ," he whispered, leaning back.

_Is this it then_? _Am I to be sent to the scaffold without ever having sex again_? _Without ever having loved anyone_?

Frustrated, Francis rolled over and dejectedly faced the wall.

He hadn't thought about his pending death for a while, too distracted by Arthur and the boys. A month ago if someone had asked him if he was afraid to die, he would have said no and it would have been true. If someone had asked him if he _wanted_ to die, he would have said yes. He had left the Mediterranean fully intending to die, after all. _It's not like I became a pirate because I cared about my life_ , he thought bitterly. But now he wasn't so certain. Since leaving Europe something had changed. Three somethings, actually.

And they were all asleep in the captain's bed.


	4. Three

**BONNEFOI**

It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Francis asked.

Arthur was sitting at his desk, scribbling in a log book. "What has?" he asked absently.

Francis sauntered forward, trying not to let his nerves—or eagerness—show. When he was close enough, but still out of arm's reach, he stopped, cocked his curly blonde head, and eyed Arthur suggestively.

_He's either going to let me or kill me_ , _but at this point it's worth the risk_.

Feigning nonchalance, he said: "Since you've had sex."

The pen nib snapped, splattering ink. " _What_?"

Francis couldn't help but smirk at Arthur's bashful reaction. Despite the risk, he really liked toying with him. He liked seeing the confident, straight-laced naval captain flustered and taken off-guard. It was adorable—in a sexy way. It made Arthur seem so much less intimidating and prompted Francis to inch closer.

"It's been a long time since you've had any... relief, hasn't it? That's why you can't relax. You're stressed and frustrated and short-tempered, because you're tense. How long has it been since you last, you know—?" He made a jerking motion with his hand.

"Oi! Keep your voice down!" Arthur snapped, going scarlet. He glanced anxiously at the sleeping boys in his bed and back at Francis. "And that's none of your fucking business, you frog-eating pervert! Now go away!" He gestured toward the cell in abrupt dismissal and turned back to the log-book, refusing to face Francis.

Francis sighed sympathetically. "That long, huh?" He leant down and cocked his head, secretly pleased. It confirmed his suspicions and encouraged his ploy.

Ignoring the Englishman's denial, he grabbed the chair and swung it suddenly around. Arthur gasped. "I know how uncomfortable it is," Francis said before Arthur could speak. "I know how desperate you feel. And I know how to fix it." As he spoke, he knelt down between Arthur's legs and spread them with little resistance. "I can help you get some relief," he offered seductively, as he slid his hand up the captain's slender thigh. "We can help each other—"

Arthur slapped his hand, but there was more reflex in it than fight.

"Get off of me," he warned, but his voice was shallow and strained.

Francis didn't move.

Arthur clenched the chair arms, white-knuckled; the rest of him was flushed red. He glared uncertainly at the Frenchman, distrusting his own voice.

"Buggery is illegal. And immoral," he recited quietly, green eyes aglow. He looked visibly conflicted.

Francis pushed him further.

_He's on the verge of breaking_ , _of surrendering to what I know he really wants_ ; _what_ he _knows he really wants. Come on_ , _Arthur_... _trust me._

" _Arthur_ ," he said, softer now. He raised his hand again slowly, but Arthur didn't speak. He didn't move when Francis' hand landed on his leg. He stared at Francis through big, conflicted green eyes that sparkled with arousal; too weak to refuse him, too afraid to encourage him.

Francis could feel Arthur's lower-body awakening to his proximity, his intimate touch. Gently, he squeezed the man's inner-thigh, conveying a shared secret desire.

" _I could have you flogged_ ," Arthur whispered.

"But you won't," Francis gambled, "because you're just as desperate as I am. It's been too long," he repeated. He held Arthur's vibrant green gaze as he reached for his belt, unfastening it and unbuttoning his trousers. Arthur's eyes darted to the door, looking fearful, but he didn't fight. He let Francis slip a hand into his breaches and caress his stiff cock. "This doesn't mean anything," Francis promised, his tone low and soothing. "This is just one desperate man helping another, right?" He wrapped his hand around Arthur's girth and squeezed. Arthur whimpered.

"If we're caught—" he gasped.

"We won't be. Just relax, _Capitaine_."

"Nn-no," Arthur pleaded when Francis hand began to slide up-and-down. "Please—st-sto— _Ah_..."

Francis used his free hand to pull down Arthur's trousers, liberating his slick, erect cock.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. " _Oh_ , please—stop," he said, even as his hips jerked forward. "Stop it, please—don't— _don't—don't stop_.

" _Oh fuck_ , _don't stop_!"

He threw his head back in surrender, body tense and trembling. His back arched against the chair and he bit his lip in an effort to be quiet, but it was futile. He was panting and gasping, even grunting a bit as Francis pumped his cock. It was such an arousing sight, the hot and bothered Englishman nearing climax, that Francis felt himself getting hard just watching. But it was over quickly—as expected. Arthur's narrow hips bucked in release, filling Francis' hand. Then he exhaled a shuddering breath and sunk back into the chair, open-mouthed and starry-eyed. His chest rose and fell fast as he panted, his cheeks red in relief and embarrassment.

Francis swallowed, growing impatient as he waited for Arthur to recover. He was so uncomfortable now with his cock straining up against his trousers, aching for attention. He waited a moment, trying to be patient, considerate, until he simply couldn't wait anymore.

"It's my turn, now."

Arthur glanced skeptically at him.

"Come on, _Capitaine_ , that wasn't charity. It's my turn," he repeated, feeling—and sounding—desperate. " _Please_?"

Slowly Arthur stood, relinquishing his seat to Francis. He placed his hands on Francis' shoulders and pushed roughly down.

"Sit," he said.

* * *

Francis watched Arthur through heavily-lidded eyes as the Englishman stood and re-buttoned his trousers in a hurry, afraid of being caught in a compromising position. Francis, on the other hand, didn't care. If someone had burst into the cabin just then and saw him sitting slumped back with his cock out, sticky and flaccid, he wouldn't have had the energy—or decency—to seek cover. He would have merely shrugged and continued to bask in the afterglow of sexual release. He had never been afraid or ashamed of his own body or its functions. Unlike Arthur, apparently, who fussed about cleanliness. He wiped himself off, changed clothes, and then scrubbed his hands raw, as if the washing could somehow wash his soul clean of what they had just done. Frankly, it made Francis dizzy. He, himself, had accepted his sexual appetites—and preferences—long ago and was no more ashamed of them now than he was of desiring Arthur Kirkland. When the blushing Englishman caught Francis staring at him, he glanced down sheepishly.

"I've... never done that before. To someone else, I mean."

"Really, never?" Francis cocked an eyebrow in mock-surprise. Then he grinned, and said: "You're good at it."

"S-sod-off!" Arthur snapped. "This was a one-time thing, okay? Let's not make a routine of it."

"Fine." Francis sighed. With effort, he straightened his clothes and hauled himself up to wash. Cheekily, he asked: "Can I sleep in your bed tonight, _Capitaine_?"

"No."

That said, Arthur turned his back on Francis. He crossed the cabin to check on the still sleeping boys, who— _thank God_ —slept like the dead. As a precaution, he touched Mathieu's forehead, brushing back pale curls to feel for fever, and then tucked the blankets in around he and Alfred. The twins were small and snuggled close together, but Arthur still had to shift them to make room for himself as he climbed in. Mathieu was hugging a pillow like a stuffed-toy and Alfred was drooling on another, which left Arthur with nothing but a lumpy mattress, but he didn't complain. In fact, Francis spotted the ghost of a smile on his lips. As he manoeuvred, his too-large shirt slipped down, revealing a generous amount of freckled skin and deliciously smooth, lean muscle...

"What are you staring at?" Arthur growled at Francis, short-tempered in embarrassment. He tugged his shirt up self-consciously. "Go to bed, frog-eater."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I'm going," he complained, traipsing lazily back to the cell. "You're the least tactful person on earth, you know that?"

Arthur ignored him as he settled down, finally letting himself relax in the baby-soft scent and warmth of his charges. Francis really wanted to kiss them all goodnight.

"Just go to sleep," said Arthur's sleepy, disassociated voice, no longer interested in Francis at all.

So, with a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, Francis did.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

It was early-morning when a crash startled Arthur out of a deep sleep. He jolted awake and threw his arm across the boys in reflex to protect them from a phantom threat. Matthew was awake, staring teary-eyed at the window; Alfred was snoring soundly. ( _He would sleep through cannon-fire_ , Arthur thought.) Outside, a fierce rain lashed the glass and _The Rose_ rocked violently like a pendulum as it cut through the howling wind and waves. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled across the sky. Matthew whimpered and pulled the blanket up to his chin, clutching it tightly in fear.

"It's okay," said Arthur, patting the boy's head. He started to rise, but Matthew grabbed his trouser-leg and a small noise escaped him. Distracted, Arthur unclenched the tiny, fragile fingers, and repeated: "It's okay, just a storm. Go back to sleep, wee lamb, I'll be right back."

In the cell, Francis was dead-asleep. One of his arms was flung out sideways, the other was resting beneath his head. The front of his shirt was undone, revealing an elegant collarbone and beautiful sun-kissed skin. His angular face was well-sculpted, like an artist's model. He was a fit man and looked just as peaceful as Alfred as he lay there sleeping, unbothered by the weather. Arthur stared openly at him, his gaze fixated on the handsome Frenchman as he tugged on a hooded coat. Francis slept with his lips slightly parted; Arthur absently licked his own.

He stepped out into a torrential rain and headed quickly to the navigator's cabin, which was located across the treacherous deck. It was important that _The Rose_ remain on course, bad weather or not. She was on a very tight schedule and it was his responsibility as captain to manage her progress. However, when he reached his destination—fighting the violently swaying ship—the navigator, doctor, and first-mate were already there, all standing beneath a swinging light fixture, studying a map, and barely paused to acknowledge Arthur's presence.

_Are they having a meeting without me_? he wondered.

The thought provoked unease in the young captain. He disliked that his crew so often ignored his position as commander and had meetings and made plans without him. Undoubtedly, the three seasoned sailors disliked taking orders from a skinny twenty-two-year-old, which is why Arthur didn't trust them, even though none of them openly disobeyed him. The disinterested glance they cast him put thoughts of mutiny into his active imagination and made him angry. In an authoritative tone, he said:

"Something I should know about, gentlemen?"

The first-mate and navigator exchanged an annoyed glance, and the gaunt-faced doctor eyed Arthur warily. Arthur avoided direct eye-contact with him. He was the only one of the trio who knew about the boys, and the captain didn't want to risk him telling his fellows.

The first-mate said: "It's this weather, Captain. It'll blow us off course if it continues like this. Or, sink us," he added darkly. We're in agreement that we should head toward the African coast and anchor her. If this storm gets any fiercer, we'll capsize."

" _The Rose_ is a retired ship-of-the-line, she can stand a bit of wind and rain. She won't capsize," said Arthur sternly. The first-mate lifted a doubtful eyebrow, so he added: "We have a strict schedule to keep. We'll lose too much time sailing to Africa and back."

He didn't want to admit that he was afraid to make port in Africa for three glaring reasons. Firstly, he needed to get Alfred and Matthew to England as soon as possible, because every day they spent aboard _The Rose_ put them in danger. Secondly, the longer the voyage took the more likely he was to repeat that embarrassing episode involving Francis and their common nether regions, and terrified that it could lead to more. And thirdly—and most relevant—he didn't trust his crew not to mutiny and maroon him on the continent. The sooner they reached England, the better for everyone.

"Captain, if I may—"

"No, you may not," Arthur interrupted the first-mate. "Keep us on course," he ordered, then left to avoid an argument.

He returned to the captain's cabin, feeling conflicted. As he pulled down his hood, shivering, he looked at the bed. Alfred was stretched-out across it like a starfish, his shirt riding-up to expose his belly, his mouth open, snoring softly. Arthur smiled and thought that if he could immortalize Alfred in a portrait miniature, it would be this image of the boy sleeping. It was too adorable. It would occupy one half of a locket, and the other half would be of—

_Matthew_?

Matthew was not in the bed beside Alfred, where Arthur had left him.

"Matthew?" Arthur called, worrying. He scanned the small cabin, but didn't see the boy. "Matthew," he said again, glancing into Francis' cell, but the Frenchman hadn't moved. "Matthew, where are you, poppet?" He lifted the tablecloth, looked inside the wardrobe, searched the floor on his hands-and-knees. He even looked under the sagging bed. "Matthew!" he repeated, staring to panic.

_Oh God_ , _where is he_? _Where could he have gone_?

Arthur tried to think logically, even as his gaze whipped back-and-forth. If he was a frightened four-year-old, where would he go? He tried to remember himself as a child, but struggled. Arthur hadn't had much of a childhood; he had grown-up fast by necessity. Still, if he thought hard about it, he vaguely remembered being petrified of storms, too, and how he had always sought out his older brothers for comfort.

_Matthew was near tears when I left him_ , he thought guiltily.

Then he froze.

_When I left him. Oh_ , _no. Matthew was terrified and I left him. He wouldn't have followed me out_ , _would he_?

Feeling cold with panic, Arthur banged on Francis' cell. "Frog-eater, wake up! Please tell me that Matthew is in there with you."

Francis blinked and rubbed sleep from his eyes. He frowned when he saw the storm, but was unperturbed by it. "Hmm, Mathieu? No. Why? What's wrong, _Capitaine_?" he added, waking up when he saw Arthur's panic-stricken face. Quickly, his eyes flicked to the bed and back. "Where is Mathieu?"

"Oh, bollocks! I don't know!"

" _What_? What do you mean you don't know?" Francis jumped to his feet and clambered half-naked to the cell door, which had swung closed sometime in the night. " _Capitaine_!" he yelled over a thunderclap. "Is Mathieu on-deck? _Mon Dieu_! Let me out, I'll help look for him!"

"No, I can't—"

" _Let me out_!" Francis yelled.

He looked terrified, but determined. Against his better judgement, Arthur complied. The clamour was finally enough to wake Alfred, who murmured groggily.

"Where's Mattie?" he asked innocently. A thunderclap crashed and he flinched, his blue eyes growing wide in realization. "Uh, oh. Mattie's scawed of stowms." In fairness, Alfred didn't seem too fond of them either, but he pulled the bed-sheet over his head like a cloak and jumped bravely off the bed. "He'll be weally scawed! I have to find him!" he declared, stumbling across the floor. He tripped and Arthur lunged forward and grabbed him around the belly.

"No," he said sternly, "you'll stay right here with— _Francis_?"

The cabin door clacked against the wall, hanging ajar. Francis was nowhere to be seen.

"Bugger!" Arthur growled.

_That idiot_! _If he's caught on-deck they'll flog him_!

Frantically, he released Alfred and ordered him to return to bed and wait there. His mistake was in thinking the child would listen.

"Just stay here—

" _Oi_ , _Alfred_!" he shouted as the boy ran for the door. He tried to grab the back of the bed-sheet, but he missed and Alfred dashed out the door.

Quickly—cursing profusely—Arthur followed.

The rainfall was cold and dense, but Arthur spotted the bed-sheet flailing like a sail in the wind. "Alfred!" he yelled, angry and frightened. The ship rocked violently, throwing Arthur off-balance. He leapt and snagged the sheet, but Alfred was no longer attached to it. " _Fuck_!" He let the wind take it. " _Alfred_! _Matthew_ , _where are you_?" he called, whipping his head from left-to-right.

_Christ_ , _the King_ , _and the Queen's bloody bloomers_ , _where are you_?

He raced over the slippery deck, speed keeping his balance. A strike of white lightning lit the frothing ocean, accompanied by a crack of deafening thunder. It was pandemonium on-deck. The crew was yelling and pulling and pushing, rushing to secure the many lines, tie ropes, lock doors, and try not to fall overboard while they kept the ship upright.

In the confusion, Arthur collided with one of his crew. He grabbed the man's shoulders and shouted: "Have you seen two lads?"

The crewman growled obscenely and shook his head, focused on his task. Arthur let him go and grabbed another.

"Have you seen two lads?" he demanded. He gestured with his hand to indicate the boys' height, but the man barely responded before pulling away.

Arthur's heart was pounding madly as he scanned the dark, crowded, rain-lashed deck, as if a fist of fear was physically squeezing it. He started to feel helpless. He looked up and spotted the first-mate barking orders from the forecastle-deck, looking self-important. Briefly, he made eye-contact with the panicked captain before deliberately ignoring him. Arthur started toward him, but a sudden high-pitched shriek cut through the din. He whipped around:

" _Matthew_ —!"

He saw Francis first. The Frenchman was standing on the gun-deck dangerously near the bulkhead, hunched over Matthew. He was clutching the petrified child with his right hand as his left hand reached for Alfred. Alfred, too, had spotted them and was running toward Francis on wobbly legs. He was so, so close. He reached out with a pudgy hand—

The ship struck a massive wave and swung sideways. Arthur pitched forward. Francis lost his balance and hit the bulkhead hard, protecting Matthew in the circle of his arms. Alfred flew across the wet deck and landed a few feet from Francis, but he didn't stop. His body was too lightweight. He hit the bulkhead and flipped over it. Francis leapt forward, grabbing for him, but missed by mere inches. Matthew shrieked again as Alfred flew overboard.

" _Alfred_!" Francis cried in terror.

Arthur flew past him, grabbed a rope as he leapt onto the bulkhead, and dove into the frothing water below.

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

_Arthur_!" Francis screamed.

For a moment, he just stood there clutching Mathieu in shock.

_Arthur and Alfred fell overboard_.

Then he leapt into action.

" _Don't let go_!" he told Mathieu.

Freeing his hands—Mathieu wrapped himself around Francis' leg—Francis grabbed the rope that Arthur had taken, tied to the mast, and gave it a secure tug. He could just barely see Arthur's figure floundering below, his head bobbing above the water as he was dragged along, submerging as the waves crashed over him. He had shrugged out of his coat, letting it sink, and was treading the surface in his shirt-sleeves. Francis couldn't see if he was holding Alfred or not; it was too dark. " _Arthur_!" he yelled. Whether Arthur heard him or not, he grasped the rope tightly and gave it a yank. It was wrapped around his whole arm.

"You," Francis grabbed the nearest crewman, "help me!"

He indicated the rope and the man joined him, as did the cabin-boy, and together they pulled. Francis didn't know where his strength came from, but he barely felt the strain in his muscles as he tugged the rope hand-over-fist, burning his palms on the braided cords. At the bulkhead, he let go of the rope and simply grabbed Arthur around the torso and pulled he and Alfred— _oh_ , _thank God_!—up and over. The momentum and weight knocked him backwards. Mathieu leapt out of the way.

" _Oh_ , _Alfred_!" Francis gasped. The moment he regained his breath, he leant forward and peppered Alfred in relieved kisses, hugging the boy close. Scared, Alfred coughed-up saltwater, hiccupped once, and proceeded to wail. " _Oh_ , _mon bébé_." Francis rubbed Alfred's back as he studied his white face, looking for signs of injury. Fortunately—miraculously—Alfred seemed to be physically unhurt. Francis had expected broken bones or water in his lungs, but it seemed a few bruises is all the boy had suffered. And fear, of course. Alfred clenched Francis' shirt in his fists, seeking comfort as he sobbed. The sheer power of his cries confirmed that his lungs were clear and Francis sighed in relief. He held the boy to his chest one-handed and examined Arthur with the other.

" _Capitaine_ —?" he asked hopefully.

Arthur's drenched body was lying limply atop Francis, his cheek pressed to Francis' clavicle. He was gasping; Francis could feel his chest rising-and-falling, his heartbeat palpitating. Slowly he looked up—wide-eyed, white-faced, and shivering—and smiled.

Overwhelmed with relief, Francis smiled back. "Arthur—"

Several pairs of strong, callused hands grabbed Francis and dragged him roughly to his feet. Arthur stepped shakily back in surprise, and Alfred was ripped from both of their hands. (Alfred screamed.) The first-mate's cloudy eyes glared at Francis, then Arthur, illuminated by a flash of lightning. Pointing, he ordered everyone into the nearby navigator's cabin. There, he said:

"Captain, what's going on? Why is the prisoner free? And who the fuck are _they_?" he demanded, pointing to the boys hiding behind Arthur's legs.

"Oh, uh..." Arthur exchanged a desperate look with Francis, who had been forced to his knees. "They, uh..."

"They're his sons," said the cabin-boy helpfully. "That's, uh... what you told me, Captain. Sir," he said, feeling self-conscious when everyone looked at him. Bowing his head, he stepped back.

The first-mate narrowed his eyes skeptically at Arthur. "Is that true? These are your sons?"

Again Arthur looked at Francis, who nodded. "Uh, yes," Arthur replied, placing a protective hand on each of the boys' heads. All three of them were shivering violently. Alfred slumped against Arthur, hugging his leg for physical support, though Arthur looked as if he might faint. Both were pale and exhausted from near-drowning, and Mathieu looked positively petrified. It angered Francis that the first-mate thought an interrogation was more important than the health and wellbeing of his captain and two vulnerable children.

"Someone fetch them a blanket—" he started, but got punched in the stomach. The breath went out of him.

"In a minute," said the first-mate. His tone was sharp and authoritative. His gaze hadn't moved from Arthur, nor softened. "How long have you had children here, Captain? Why didn't you tell us?"

"It's, uh... it's a recent development," said Arthur vaguely. "They were born in the colonies"—which was the truth—"and now I'm taking them back to England."

The first-mate was rather displeased by the simplicity of Arthur's explanation, but he didn't argue it. Instead, he jerked his head at Francis.

"And _him_?" he asked. "What reason have you got for not keeping the fucking prisoner locked-up, Captain?"

His tone was suspicious, accusing Arthur of—

_What exactly_? Francis worried.

He watched Arthur's Lincoln-green eyes brighten dangerously in challenge. He was weak and exhausted, but the Englishman was proud. Defensively, having had enough of the first-mate's disrespect, he lifted his chin, and said:

"That is absolutely none of your concern, sir. Your job and only priority is the management and maintenance of this ship, not the transport of high-profile criminals, or the personal lives of me and my family. I am the captain of this vessel, not you. You will not question my authority. I believe you have more important things to attend to than interrogating _me_ , so I suggest you start doing them. Someone bring the doctor to my cabin," he ordered loudly, "and—for fuck's sake—get me a bloody blanket. And release him," he snapped at the men restraining Francis. "He might be a bloody pirate, but he rescued me and my boy. I think that's earned him a drink."

That said, Arthur hefted both boys into his arms and led the small party back to the captain's cabin.

Francis braced a hand against the wind. It howled, but the rain had started to abate and the sea had calmed. He held Arthur around the waist as they stumbled into the cabin, Arthur leaning against Francis for support. His legs shook, but he refused to look weak in front of his crew. It wasn't until Francis had shut the door behind them that Arthur finally, privately, collapsed. Francis half-carried he and the boys to the bed, where they all sat. Arthur's breath was laboured, his strength spent.

_Are you not afraid to look weak in front of me_? Francis thought, watching Arthur in his peripheral vision. In secret, he smiled. _Do you trust me_ , _Captain_?

Maybe it was his exhaustion, but Arthur didn't protest as Francis ran his hands gently over his body to check for injury, and measured the beat of his pulse. He talked continuously as he helped the boys out of their wet clothes (Arthur undressed himself) and wrapped them all in blankets, even the one from Francis' cot. The doctor came and left, stony-faced. Francis took an instant dislike to him. He was much kinder to the cabin-boy, who brought hot water, food, and a large mug of grog for Francis. He smiled and thanked the youth , who bowed his head to him respectfully in return.

"Are you sure you're alright, _mes chéris_?" he asked later, fussing.

Alfred nodded speechlessly, traumatised by the fall. Francis held him for a long time, rocking him soothingly into a sense of security before tucking him into bed.

"That was a very stupid thing to do, boys," he said, chastising them. "We've both told you how dangerous it is on-deck. It was reckless t0 run out there—"

"Don't teach them that," said Arthur darkly.

Francis blinked. "What?"

"Hypocrisy. You were just as reckless as they were running out on-deck. You're lucky you weren't flogged."

Francis stared at him in surprise. Arthur was huddled beneath a blanket, green eyes downcast and glaring at the floorboards. He was holding Mathieu against his chest like a shield, absently rubbing the boy's back. His soft head was resting on Arthur's shoulder. The Englishman's eyelids were red and heavy, but the green was vibrant.

"Yes," Francis agreed softly, "I suppose I am a hypocrite. But I couldn't help it. Alfred and Mathieu were—"

"I know, I just..." Arthur bit his bottom lip. He looked troubled. After a minute, he said: "You should change your clothes before you get sick. You're soaking wet."

"No more than you." Francis folded his arms. "Besides, since when do you care if I get flogged or catch sick?"

"You must think me very cold, Francis," Arthur said quietly. He had never used Francis' given-name before. Deliberately, he lifted his eyes. "I was worried for the wee lads out there, of course, but when I couldn't find you either I... I got scared," he admitted.

Francis stared at him, dumbfounded by Arthur's confession. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he felt—impossibly, irrationally—happy. Then Arthur turned away.

"Sleep well, wee lambs," he whispered, tucking Mathieu into bed beside Alfred. Tenderly, he touched each of their soft cheeks and smiled down at them, revealing a curious blend of fear and relief. It made Francis want to touch him. He wanted to draw the Englishman into his arms and squeeze him to prove that he was alive and well; to feel the flood of relief, knowing that Arthur was safe.

When Arthur turned back around, he was surprised to find Francis so close. He started to speak: "What are you—" but Francis grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

It was feather-soft and chaste. Francis was unsure of Arthur's reaction—his feelings—but he risked it anyway. He couldn't help the need that flooded him: a need to express himself in actions, because words were far too shallow. He pressed his lips against Arthurs for as long as he dared, so afraid that the Englishman would reject him. However, as the initial shock ebbed, he felt Arthur respond in kind. Maybe it was the near-death experience, but Arthur leant into Francis' touch and pressed his lips more firmly, more deliberately, against his. Francis moved his free hand to Arthur's waist and pulled, drawing their chests together, and Arthur didn't resist. His body was cold and covered in goose-bumps, but Francis loved the feel of it—the shape of it—against his own. A part of him wanted to warm Arthur up for his health; another part wanted to throw him down and make him sweat and harass his whole defenceless body until he cried-out in pleasure. Then a soft, sad moan escaped Arthur and it was over.

He pulled back and stepped out of Francis' arms. They stared at each other for a moment in disbelief, the pirate and the naval captain. Then, as if to remind himself (to stop himself), Arthur said:

"I'm sorry you have to die."

Reality crashed down, destroying the fantasy. Francis felt his heart ache. All he could say was:

"Me, too."

* * *

It was late in the morning and Arthur was shivering violently.

He lay in the bed, bundled beneath several blankets with the boys, holding Alfred against his chest to protect him from the cold. Mathieu slept on Alfred's opposite side, cocooning his brother in a nest of body-heat, so Alfred slept peacefully, but Arthur's back was exposed. Francis leant down and gently touched Arthur's face. His eyelids fluttered restlessly. Francis considered his options, then pulled his shirt off overhead and carefully crawled into the bed behind Arthur. He pressed his body to the Englishman's back and wrapped his arms around his torso, hugging he and Alfred close. He waited for a minute, nervous. Then another. When Arthur didn't wake and demand he get away, Francis relaxed and closed his eyes. That's when Arthur turned his head, looking blearily over-the-shoulder at Francis in confusion.

Francis pulled back. " _Pardon_ , I just—"

"Don't go." Arthur leant back, chasing Francis retreat. His shoulders arched, curling into the inviting heat of the Frenchman's healthy body. "Stay," he whispered as he fell back to sleep.

Francis settled down and held Arthur's body skin-to-skin with one arm. The other he stretched across Alfred and rested on Mathieu's back, enveloping all three of them in a one-armed embrace. Then he closed his eyes and felt truly peaceful for the first time in years. Never had they slept together like this before, like a family. Not since leaving Italy had Francis slept beside anyone he considered family, and he realized how much he had missed it. He had been alone for so long, running away from everything, from every _one._ It was good to feel needed and wanted again, now. Even if the church and the state called it immoral and blasphemous, Francis didn't care. Lying there with Arthur and the boys felt more _right_ than anything ever had, as if this was where he was truly meant to be.

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep. And he whispered: " _Bonne nuit_ , _mes chéris_. _Je t'aime_..."


	5. Four

**KIRKLAND**

Days passed and the storm carried on, inconveniencing _The Rose_ 's trek but not hindering it. Arthur and Alfred recovered from their accidental dip in the Atlantic, and Arthur breathed in relief when it became apparent that they were not going to capsize. He was glad that his intuition about the ship's ability had been right, otherwise he would have had to concede to the first-mate's expertise and make for Africa. _And then what would've happened to us_? he thought anxiously. Francis and the boys were his responsibility, and after forty days of sailing together he had become protective of them. Since the crew had discovered the truth, he didn't trust the first-mate not to manipulate the situation to his advantage. Arthur kept a cautious eye on him, taking on more responsibility himself to prevent the first-mate from usurping his position. But it kept him busy and out of the cabin for long hours, which meant spending less time with Francis, for better or worse. He had been less surprised than expected when Francis kissed him, and even less so that he had returned the advance. Perhaps he had only been exhausted and weak from near-drowning—delirious—but his attraction to the Frenchman was becoming more undeniable and dangerous, and waking up beside him that morning had shocked the steadfast naval captain back to reality.

_It was just a kiss_ , he reassured himself. _It was innocent_ , _just a kiss between... friends_? He shook his head.

If someone had told him six weeks ago that he would ever call Francis Bonnefoi _friend_ (never-mind lusting after him like a schoolboy), he would have laughed in scornful dismissal.

"It's getting colder, _Capitaine_ ," Francis said, handing Arthur a steaming teacup. It hadn't been prepared the way Arthur preferred it, but, aside from being un-English, Francis was trying to be as accommodating as possible. He had even began advising the cook on how to prepare meals for the boys to ensure that they received the best nutrition possible. Though, he fought with Alfred every night:

" _Eat your vegetables_!"

" _No_! _I don't like them_! _They're gwoss_!"

Looking down at the mushy peas in his own bowl—which had become a shapeless, colourless sludge—Arthur couldn't help but agree with Alfred. They _were_ gross. But he plastered a smile to his face and took a big bite anyway to show the boys that canned vegetables didn't taste as bad as they looked. It was a lie, of course, but the boys needed what little greens they could get, even if they weren't technically green anymore. It was at times like this—mealtimes—that Arthur wished all children could be like Matthew, who slurped down his peas without verbal protest... even if he did it with the grim resignation of someone being fed poison.

Day-by-day, Francis was proving himself to be a very apt cook, caretaker, and teacher. It was all surprisingly domestic, considering his spoiled upbringing, but Arthur was grateful to have him. He even, maybe, enjoyed watching Francis flitter about, smiling and humming to himself as he performed the most mundane of tasks. It was almost like having a wife—

"Arthur?"

As Francis let go of the teacup his hand lingered, touching Arthur's.

"Cheers," said Arthur, taking it. He had a map and several instruments scattered over the tabletop. The boys were playing underneath it, having built a tent with a bed-sheet. Every so often, a chess piece was marched across his boot. "We should reach Spanish waters by tomorrow. Then, depending on the wind, it should only take a few days to sail to England."

"Our journey's end," said Francis sadly.

Arthur avoided eye-contact. He wanted to say something positive, but, given the bleakness of Francis' future, he couldn't think of anything. He had already voiced regret for the Frenchman's fate. What more could he say or do?

_I think I'm falling in love with you_ , _but when we reach England you still have to die_.

Arthur felt his stomach twist. It would only complicate things when they disembarked if Arthur admitted his feelings now, uncertain as they were. It wouldn't change anything, after all. It would only make reality hurt that much more.

Arthur felt one of the boy's hands on his boot, crawling around in their tent, and he steeled himself against heartache. Francis' departure was going to be hardest on the boys, who had no idea what awaited them in England. (They were even excited for it, the little tykes!) Arthur would need to be strong for them, to comfort them and promise them that Francis had gone to—what? A better place?

_No_ , _I can't tell them. It would break their hearts if they knew he died_ , _and they've already suffered so much_.

_Is abandonment a better excuse than death_? asked his Conscience. _Is it really better knowing that someone chose to leave you_?

" _Capitaine_ , you look troubled. Is something wrong?" Francis asked, concern showing in his fathomless blue eyes.

"No, I just..." Arthur swallowed. Forcing a smile, he lied: "Thank-you for the tea. It's good."

* * *

At sunset Arthur intentionally took the boys— _his sons_ —on-deck for the first time.

"Come on, lads, I want to show you something. It's the very best part of being a sailor.

"I'm sorry," he added, casting Francis an apologetic glance, "you have to stay here."

Francis nodded in understanding and smiled for the boys' sake. Arthur took each boy's hand and walked them outside. Instantly he could feel the crewmen's eyes on him. Alfred smiled and waved; Matthew clutched Arthur's hand, remembering the loud noises and angry voices of before. The first-mate stood stonily on the forecastle-deck, watching like a hawk, but Arthur ignored him. Instead, he took the boys in the opposite direction to the topmost deck:

"The poop-deck!" Alfred giggled.

"Yes, that's right." Arthur rolled his eyes, then ruffled Alfred's feathery hair, making him laugh and playfully fight back. He crawled onto Arthur's lap and made a disgruntled pouting face, nearly nose-to-nose with the captain. Arthur frowned in mock-disapproval, then grabbed the boy's belly and tickled him. Alfred shrieked gleefully, drawing attention from below. He was such a social spirit, who loved being the centre-of-attention, but it made Arthur uneasy. He quieted Alfred, settling him onto one knee, and then glanced around for Matthew.

Matthew was standing at the edge of the deck and staring in awe at the sky. It looked like an oil painting, rich strokes of pink, purple, orange, and gold lighting the entire west with the sun's fiery glow. It looked close, sinking just below the horizon. Sunrays danced on the water, making the Atlantic sparkle like gold. It bathed the deck, including Matthew, who was standing directly in its path. Alfred and Matthew were both attractive children, but when Matthew looked back at him, Arthur could have sworn he was seeing an angel. And it hurt. It was impossibly beautiful, but he felt a stab of longing so intense that his eyes beaded with tears. He squeezed Alfred as he watched Matthew, trying to hold onto something that was just out of reach, even if he didn't know what it was. What was this feeling? What were these two little boys to him? Salvation, perhaps, though Arthur wasn't sure he deserved it. Greedily, he didn't want to let either one of them go.

"Matthew," he called, gesturing for him. One-handed, he lifted Matthew onto his knee, opposite Alfred. "This is what I wanted to show you," he said, talking to distract himself. "It's lovely, isn't it? When I'm up here all by myself, staring out over the horizon, I can almost believe that freedom is real."

He didn't expect them to understand, but he talked anyway. It felt good to say it, like confessing to a diary. Arthur was not someone who was good at sharing his feelings, but the more he talked the easier it became, and the boys didn't interrupt. As they watched the sun sink lower he held them closer, and finished simply with:

"This is my favourite thing about being a sea captain."

"I would be good at swords," Alfred proclaimed, striking-out boldly.

"Yes, I believe you would be."

"And—and—and I would be good at, um—at being a pirate, like, um—like Papa Fwancis."

Arthur swallowed. He wanted to tell the boy: "No, pirates are bad men! They're dangerous!" but he couldn't do it without being a hypocrite.

_I think I've fallen in love with one_.

But was it Francis, or was it freedom that he truly desired? Like the sunset that looked so close, yet remained forever out of reach. The wheel of fortune hadn't favoured Arthur Kirkland since he was a young child, but the starry-eyed dreams he had once had had never come true. If anything, they were getting farther away as the wheel continued to turn. He had always been hungry for a world that was just outside of his reach. It was a dream, but dreams didn't—couldn't—last. Francis. Alfred. Matthew. Too soon Arthur would have to wake-up.

He flinched when he felt the cold touch of fingers on his cheek. Matthew was looking back at him, holding a teardrop on his tiny finger. His violet eyes were sad and confused and seemed to say: _Don't cry_ , _it's going to be okay_ (which, of course, made it worse). Arthur's vision blurred as tears filled his eyes, but he blinked them quickly away. He smiled down at the perceptive little boy, sharing a sad secret.

_Don't tell anyone_ , _okay_ , _Matthew_?

Silent, Matthew laid his head on Arthur's shoulder and watched the sun disappear into the sea.

* * *

BANG. BANG.

" _Captain_!" called the first-mate. " _Captain_ , _it's urgent_! _We're being chased by bloody_ _pirates_!"

Francis was putting the boys down for an afternoon nap, but he whipped quickly around when he heard the commotion. His blue eyes pierced Arthur in urgency.

Arthur dropped his log-book and sprang into action.

"Yes, I'm coming!" he called in reply, tugging on his red overcoat and grabbing a spyglass. With a backwards glance, he hurried out the door.

He leapt up the narrow steps and landed at the helm, looking bedraggled, but nobody commented. "Tell me what happened," he ordered authoritatively as he lifted the spyglass. A slender Spanish sloop flying renegade colours was closing-in fast and would catch them soon. " _Fuck_!" he cursed. "Can we outrun them?"

"Not in open-water like this," reported the first-mate. "If we don't engage her, she'll fire."

"Get her in range of the long nines and sink her. I'd rather not be boarded by fucking pirates, but ready the deck for combat nonetheless."

That said, he returned to his cabin.

Alfred and Matthew had their faces pressed to the window glass, trying to spy the excitement, while Francis paced the cabin nervously. "What's happening? Are we under attack?" he asked.

"We're about to be," Arthur answered as cannon-fire sounded. Matthew flinched and Alfred covered his ears, but to Arthur's surprise they didn't panic.

_They trust us to protect them_ , he realized, feeling both proud and anxious. _I hope it's not misplaced_.

He pulled pistols from the most unlikely places and stuck them into his belt, then he shoved a fish-knife into his boot and strapped a cutlass to his waist. As an afterthought he discarded his overcoat, which was: a) very heavy; and b) distinguished him as the captain and prime target. So focused on his preparations, he wasn't paying attention to anything that Francis was saying until the Frenchman yelled:

" _Arrêtez_!"

" _What_?" Arthur snapped. "I'm a little busy here, frog."

Francis gestured. "If we're about to be boarded then at least leave me a weapon. The captain's cabin is the first place they'll loot. What will happen when they find us unarmed? I'll tell you," he said before Arthur could guess. "They'll kill me and take the boys. Give me a weapon so that I can protect them!"

Despite his growing fondness for Francis, Arthur hesitated. Giving a weapon to the prisoner was risky.

_What if he uses it on me or the crew_? _What if this has all been an act and this attack is_ _actually part of an elaborate escape plan_?

Arthur hated how paranoid he was, but ugly doubt gnawed at him. The sloop _was_ a pirate ship, after all, and Francis Bonnefoi had grown-up in the Mediterranean. It was likely that he had Spanish acquaintances, like his foster-brother. He hated how thoughts of mutiny plagued him, making him suspicious of the man he claimed to love. But he recoiled when Francis shouted in desperation:

" _Capitaine_ , we're running out of time!" He stepped forward beseechingly. So close, Arthur could see the fear in his eyes. "Please trust me."

_The Rose_ crashed against the sloop with a violent jerk and Arthur lost his balance. Francis caught his arms and steadied him.

_Fuck_ , _they caught us faster than expected_.

The sloop's captain must've been a skilled seaman; the attack was experienced. He could hear the explosive power of cannon-fire, rocking both ships, and gunshots. Then the clang of steel-on-steel as _The Rose_ was boarded. He could hear the growl of men's voices, loud and angry, followed by screams of pain. Scared, the boys retreated to the safety of Arthur's bed and pulled the blankets up overhead. Arthur made his decision.

_I'll stop them_. _I won't let them take my boys_. _I won't let them take Francis._

Spontaneously he pulled Francis into a clumsy kiss, and thrust a pistol into his hand. It happened fast. When they separated, he said: "Don't disappoint me, Francis."

Francis said: "Don't die, Arthur."

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

Pistol in hand, Francis ran to the bed and collected the boys into his arms, hugging them.

"It's okay, there's nothing to fear," he lied. " _Capitaine_ Arthur is going to protect us. He's so very brave." In wonder, Alfred looked from the loaded pistol in Francis' hand to the gentle smile on his face. "Yes, _mes chéri_ , I'm here too. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to either of you, I promise."

The boys' heartbeats were fast. To distract them Francis talked, but Mathieu stared at the cabin door, frozen, like a puppy awaiting its master's return. _He's afraid for Arthur_ , Francis knew, _just like on the night of the storm._ In sympathy, he squeezed both boys and began to sing a nursery rhyme from his childhood. He couldn't remember ever learning it, but the peaceful tune was soothing. (He used to sing it to his brothers when they had nightmares.) He sang in French, rocking the boys. Alfred clutched his shirt-front tensely; Mathieu sat perfectly still. Francis tried to keep his voice steady, but he failed to suppress the worry. He clenched the pistol's grip as gunshots sounded dangerously close and men screamed. One shot hit the cabin door.

"Are we going to die?" Alfred dared. His voice was small and unlike himself.

"No," Francis said, hoping it was the truth. He used his free hand to rub the boy's back. "Of course not, _chéri_. Arthur will protect us."

But Francis couldn't deny the horrible sick feeling that ambushed him when he thought about the danger on-deck: cannon-fire, stray bullets, and sharp blades. The picture of Arthur's bloodstained corpse was more than he had bargained for and he took a deep breath. The mental-image scared him. Not only because without Arthur Francis was as good as drowned and the boys as good as abandoned, but because he genuinely didn't want the Englishman to die. The thought of Arthur deliberately placing himself in danger to protect them drove Francis mad with worry. He didn't want to lose Arthur; he couldn't bear it. The boys needed him.

_I need him_ , he realized, knowing for certain, now, that he had been falling in love with Arthur Kirkland for weeks.

_Please let him live_ , he prayed, closing his eyes.

The sudden urge to protect Arthur overwhelmed him and he hated how helpless his situation was. If Arthur died then Francis honestly didn't know what he would do in retaliation, but it wouldn't be kind.

"What if he gets killed?" Alfred asked, blue eyes bright with tears. His lip trembled.

"No," Francis repeated sternly, hugging Alfred and Mathieu close. "He won't."

_He can't_.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Arthur felled a black-haired pirate with his cutlass, one-handed; his pistol smoked in the other. Blood freckled his face and clothes, but he took no notice. On-deck it was pandemonium. It was crowded, slippery, and smelled like blood, sweat, and gunpowder. A thick layer of smoke hung like fog over both decks as they rocked together on the waves. The cannons fired, producing a deafening sound and a reverberating shudder. Arthur managed to keep his footing, but others were less practiced. They tripped and hit the deck hard, prey for those with better balance.

Suddenly, Arthur was attacked by a vigorous pirate with excellent balance. His body moved like dancer as he lunged, striking-out. His technique was exceptionally schooled—graceful even—not only from experience. _This one's had formal combat training_ , Arthur thought as he dodged a blow, narrowly escaping death. He clutched his cutlass in a white-knuckled hand as he analyzed his opponent, searching for weakness. He was a young, dark-skinned Spaniard whose wet hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were green ( _that's odd_ , _I've never met a Spaniard with green eyes before_ ) and he clenched his teeth in attack. He looked feral. He was fast—almost too fast, too precise. But Arthur Kirkland was a strategist. He read the Spaniard's movements and reacted just as quickly. Soon they were trapped in a one-on-one battle for dominance, each proudly showcasing his skills. Nobody interfered.

_It's because I'm the captain_. _And so are you_.

The green-eyed Spaniard might have been young, but he had fearlessly led the charge onto _The Rose_ and the pirates had amassed around him in the initial surge. He fought with a determination that boasted pride, not only skill. And he alone possessed an animal instinct the others did not. It was like watching a wolf lead its pack on a hunt.

Arthur grinned. He had seen a wolf try to fell a stag once, snarling and frothing in ferocity, and get skewered by the stag's antlers.

"You chose the wrong fucking ship, you scallywag!" he yelled, slashing skillfully.

_You might've had formal combat lessons_ , _but I've been fighting since the day I was born._

His brothers had taught him how to fight, pushing him too hard and too far at too young an age to teach him what it truly meant to survive. It had been necessary in those days. He could still feel Alistair's fists and hear his deep, growling brogue yelling at him: " _Don't you dare lie down_! _Don't cower_! _Get up, little brother_! _Defend yourself_!"

In reflex, Arthur squeezed the cutlass' grip and attacked the Spaniard with renewed confidence.

_I've fought much bigger opponents than you_.

" _Ah_ —!" the Spaniard cried-out.

Arthur relished the sight of blood. It coated his blade, having sliced effortlessly through the Spaniard's flesh and nicked a rib. The Spaniard gasped and fell to his knees, and Arthur's blood-freckled face grinned.

"On your knees, Spanish rat!" he said cockily. "Regards from the Royal Navy!"

The Spaniard clumsily parried the attack as he dove sideways. Arthur's blade stabbed at air as his opponent escaped into the cover of cannon-smoke. _Fucking coward_ , Arthur thought unkindly. His blood was hot with adrenalin as he pursued his prey, scanning the deck for a sign of him. _Where are you_? he wondered, eyes searching. He drew a pistol and held it aloft, prepared for a surprise attack. _Come on_ , _show me your face so I can put a bullet between your pretty green eyes._ Arthur was a skilled swordsman, but his true prowess was his marksmanship. _Come on_ , he stalked the slippery deck. _Give me a target_!

It was then that he saw the first-mate at the helm, barking orders at the crew. _His_ crew. And suddenly Arthur felt defensive. In an instant he changed direction and headed to the helm. From there he could see the ship's layout and immediately began to formulate a plan to stop the enemy advance. This was his ship, after all, and he wouldn't let it be overrun by criminals. Or mutinous first-mates. He gestured to the man, and shouted over the din:

" _Flank them_! _Flush them out from below and onto the main-deck_ , _then push back_!" Inadvertently he saw the Spanish captain stagger out of the smoke, green eyes alight with bloodlust. Their gazes met for a second, and Arthur said: " _I want them off this fucking ship_!"

The first-mate retreated without a signal. Arthur wondered if he had heard him, but too soon he was forced into engagement again.

_Bloody_ , _buggering pirates_!

Quickly, he repeated his plan to the quartermaster, who relayed his orders to the crewmen. It left Arthur free to engage the Spanish captain.

_If I kill their captain_ , _the pirates might flee_. It was a gamble, but not uncommon. He clenched his weapons, fingering his pistol's trigger—

—then instinctively stopped.

A big, black-haired pirate wielding two swords had slain one of the redcoats outside the captain's cabin, and, while infuriated at the loss of a comrade, Arthur was more worried about those within. " _Fuck_!" he cursed. The pirate recognized the cabin and thrust one sword into the lock, breaking it, and then kicked-in the door. It swung forcefully back and he stalked inside. Immediately a gunshot fired and only then did Arthur realize that he was already moving. He leapt down the stairs, shoving people out of the way as he raced toward the cabin. " _Move_!" he snarled, ducking a blow and stabbing his attacker. " _Get the fuck out of my way_!" The main-deck was messy. _The Rose_ was under attack and his crew was in danger, but Arthur's priorities had changed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought: _I'm a horrible captain_ , but he didn't care. Just then he wasn't Captain Kirkland of His Majesty's Royal Navy. He was just Arthur, the nobody, who was terrified for the only people he loved.

Absently, he saw the pirates cowed into retreat. His plan was working. He heard the Spanish captain yelling in his native-tongue: " _Let go of me_! _I'll kill him_!" while his shipmates dragged him back. But Arthur didn't slow.

BANG!

He reached the captain's cabin in time to hear Francis' pistol fire again, but the pirate was agile and dodged the assault. He took the third bullet in the stomach, but didn't stop. Francis readied the pistol to fire a fourth shot, but the mechanism jammed. Arthur saw it: Francis would be dead before it unlocked. Instead, the Frenchman used the pistol as a guard to defend against the pirate's cutlass. He pushed it back forcefully, trying to parry the blow, but the pirate was too strong. The sword's blade missed Francis' face but sliced his shoulder and the pistol flew from his hand, landing several feet away. The pirate sneered in victory and prepared for a final strike. Francis stood in front of the boys, hiding them, looking like a self-sacrificial father protecting his children. In excess, the pirate raised both of his swords—

—and then screamed.

Arthur stabbed him from behind, running his cutlass clean through the pirate's chest cavity. His big body fell to the floor with an audible _thump_!

Panting hard as panic ebbed into relief, Arthur barely lowered his bloody cutlass before Francis was kissing him. The Frenchman had grabbed his shirtfront with one hand, pulling him in, while the other cupped the side of his face. He pressed his lips firmly to Arthur's in a desperate display that was hot and heady and tasted like anything—everything—but chastity. He felt Francis' slick tongue slide against his as he thrust it into his open mouth, sucking on Arthur's in return. Briefly they broke apart, gasping, then reconnected without pause. It was urgent, full of fear and relief and desire. Arthur felt dizzy, as if someone else was controlling his body. He fisted Francis' shirtfront and pulled the Frenchman toward him, wanting to feel more of him, all of him: his weight, his taste. Wanting to sink deeper into the addiction of a kiss that promised so much more.

In unison they pulled back, breaking a string of saliva as their tongues parted. Only then did Arthur realize that Alfred and Matthew were clinging desperately to his legs. He knelt down and hugged them both, wrapping his arms around them and breathing in their sweet, clean scents. He kissed them as they cried, hugging him in unabashed fear and affection with all of the strength in their small bodies. Above their heads Arthur could see the pirate's corpse, but he felt no regret. Rather, it was gratifying to know that he had killed the threat, not just because it was his job, but to protecting something dear. Three somethings.

Suddenly a bell tolled, breaking the reunion. It signalled _The Rose_ 's victory over the Spanish sloop, as did the crew's boisterous cheers. Outside, the pirate ship was turning—smoking—in fast retreat.

Arthur stood up. Now that the danger had passed, he felt a blush heat his cheeks. He could still taste Francis' tongue.

"No, don't leave!" Alfred pleaded as Arthur turned to the door.

A feeling of tenderness overwhelmed him as he placed his hand on Alfred's head. "Don't worry, pet," he said, lifting his eyes to meet Francis'. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

* * *

It was late when Arthur returned to the cabin.

There had been much work to do following the attack: dead bodies to cast overboard, valuables and supplies to salvage and record, rewards to distribute, repairs to make, and many, many orders to relay. And Captain Kirkland had to oversee it all. It should've been exciting to revel in such a victory—his crew certainly was—but he couldn't bask in it, because he couldn't stop thinking of Francis, and Francis' lips, hands, body... He couldn't concentrate on giving orders when he kept imagining the Frenchman's lithe, suntanned body pressed against his. Hot. Sweaty. Despite the strong wind, he couldn't cool down—couldn't _calm_ down. He still felt hot with adrenaline. He wanted Francis' kiss, his husky voice, his erotic touch. He wanted the Frenchman to take him and—

"That's the last of it, Captain. You can retire now," said the first-mate. "I'll handle the rest."

_Yes_ , _I'm sure you will_ , Arthur thought warily. But, desperate to return to his cabin, he only said: "Good."

Inside, Francis had gotten himself cleaned and stitched as best as he could, and had also—conveniently—put the boys to bed. They were both sleeping soundly; Alfred was snoring. Arthur was glad they felt safe enough to sleep after such a traumatic event. (And grateful that they slept so deeply, exhausted by the excitement.) He liked that they trusted he and Francis to protect them. It made him feel like he had achieved something real.

Francis smiled at Arthur's return. "There's clean water to wash-up." He pointed.

Arthur managed a nod, captivated by the Frenchman's physique. Francis was wearing nothing besides knee-length trousers and a linen bandage over his wounded shoulder. (It was a shallow cut.) His curling, ash-blonde hair hung loose around his sculpted face, looking silvery in the moonlight. Absently—nervously?—he pushed it back. The moonlight licked the contours of his body, roped in lean muscle. Arthur's eyes lowered and inadvertently followed the line of fair hair on Francis' stomach that disappeared beneath his low-hanging trousers.

Trying to appear nonchalant, he walked passed Francis and shrugged out of his wet shirt. His heartbeat was pounding. He felt so hot. He took a washcloth from the basin and started to wipe the blood off his person, but tensed when he felt Francis' body-heat behind him. Without a word, the Frenchman took the cloth and proceeded to run it all over the captain's sensitive body in a slow, seductive way that almost negated the purpose. Arthur blushed, but let him do it. He recognised the glint in Francis' blue eyes as desire. And he knew then that they both wanted the same thing.

_I want you_ — _now_.

Boldly Arthur reached up and kissed Francis, wrapping his slender, freckled arms around the Frenchman's neck as Francis' nimble hands descended. He grabbed Arthur's thighs and lifted him up. Arthur gasped into Francis' mouth. He could feel the Frenchman's erection pressed hard against his groin as Francis carried him into the cell and couldn't help grinding his body against it, jerking his pelvis against the other man's. It felt good. The tension was thick between them as they fell onto the cot together, making it groan. Francis reached back blindly and pulled the curtain closed. His tongue was hot as it worked inside Arthur's mouth, and his weight pushing down on him felt good, better than Arthur would ever admit. It felt good to be held and kissed like this, covered, coveted, given pleasure like a gift. Arthur murmured encouragement as Francis' mouth slid over his neck, his collarbone, his nipples. Maybe it had been too long since he had had sex, or maybe it was post-battle lust that aroused him so, but Arthur arched readily up into Francis' body, wanting more, more, more.

In his head, Logic said: _This is a bad idea. It's illegal_ , _immoral_ , _and he's a dead-man_.

Arthur said: _Fuck off_.

Just then, he didn't care about logic or the law. He felt safe and loved in Francis' embrace and wanted more of him. All of him. Even if it was just for one night.

When Francis said: " _Arthur_ , _I want you_ ," Arthur said: " _Yes_."

When Francis held him and kissed him and fingered him and finally penetrated him deep, Arthur cried-out: " _Yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ —"

When Francis groaned and came with a shudder, filling Arthur, Arthur moaned: " _Yes—_!" and rode his own climax to completion, spilling himself between them.

When Francis collapsed beside him, and the cabin filled with the salt scent of sweat and semen, and the last echoes of pleasure ricocheted through Arthur's body, he thought: _Yes_.

When Francis turned onto his side and opened his arms, Arthur snuggled closer and rested his cheek on his lover's warm chest, wrapping an arm around his tapered waist. He heard the purr of Francis' quiet voice in the dark:

" _Je t'aime_."

And Arthur whispered: " _Yes..._ "


	6. Interlude

**COAST OF SPAIN**

The Spanish captain clutched his ribs as he barked orders at his crew to anchor the ship in a deserted bay nearby. The sloop was still smoking from the remnants of battle and one of her masts had caught fire, cutting her speed. She needed repairs before he could take her back to open-water, but he feared staying in one place for too long. He was a pirate captain, after all: the infamous Antonio Fernández Carriedo, a man wanted by several crowns. He had been chasing merchant ships and plaguing the Mediterranean for five years now—a long career as a pirate—ever since leaving his foster-home in Italy.

_Maybe I'll go back there_ , he considered, surveying the sloop's damage. _It would be nice to relax for a while_ , _to feel safe again._

It was a hollow hope. Despite his foster-father's kindness, he hadn't felt safe since he was thirteen-years-old. He had witnessed something too horrible for words.

_That's why Francis left_.

Antonio shook his head, distracting himself from unwanted memories, and focused instead on his ship. She had been badly damaged by cannon-fire. The English ship had seemed to have a limitless store of ammunition, which is probably why she was so slow. It had not been a merchant ship, as he had been told, but a navy ship armed to the crow's nest with King George II's finest and enough artillery to sink the Spanish sloop and everyone on it.

After chastising his first-mate for the blunder—"Do you know what makes piracy successful? _Not_ engaging the Royal fucking Navy!"—he returned to his private cabin to recover. The pain in his ribs was becoming unbearable. However, the instant he opened the door he got punched in the nose.

"You fucking bastard!" Lovino shouted, red-faced and fuming.

" _Ouch_ , Lovino!" Antonio scolded. He pinched the bridge of his nose, tasting blood. He kicked the cabin door closed and advanced on the twelve-year-old, the eldest son and heir of Antonio's Italian foster-family. "What the heck was that for?"

"You know exactly what! You locked me in here!" the boy yelled. "You strapped on your guns and your sword and then just left me here! I wanted to go! I'm not a child, I can fight just as well as you can! Look!"

In determination he tried to pull Antonio's cutlass from its sheath in one swift motion, but the angle was wrong and the floor was wet and the boy slipped and fell face-first against Antonio's stomach. The Spaniard gasped suddenly in pain, which surprised Lovino.

"What's wrong? Hey—y-you're bleeding!"

Gently, Antonio removed Lovino's searching hands and forced a smile. "It's just a scratch," he lied.

The boy's gold-flecked eyes narrowed in disbelief. "No it's not, you're injured. You're going to bleed-out and die. And I don't even care, because then I'll become the captain of this ship, as I should be." He folded his skinny arms in feigned confidence, but his eyes revealed fear and his sneer—pout—trembled. His gaze hadn't left Antonio's side.

"Is that so? Well, at least I know that she'll be in good hands," Antonio said, lowering himself to the bed with a hiss. Lovino watched him peel off his bloody coat and shirt.

"I hope it hurts," he said bitterly. "That's what you get for locking me in here and leaving me behind. I could have saved you. It serves you right."

"Yes, it probably does— _Ah_!"

"God, you're so fucking _stupid_!" Lovino spat, stomping over.

He helped Antonio into a more comfortable position and then fetched a basin of water, linen bandages, and a medical box. He pouted as he cleaned the Spaniard's skin, ghosting gently over his injured ribs.

"It's just a flesh-wound," he reported, "but it'll fester if I don't stitch it."

Despite his desire to swordfight, the boy's hands were delicate and slight-fingered, more apt at intricate work than combat. Needing no instruction, he took a needle and a bobbin of thread and began to stitch the bloody flaps of Antonio's skin back together. His hands were skilled, but it was his face that Antonio watched. He was a pretty child: a gold-eyed prince. He would grow into a beautiful man soon, if not the most charming.

"Stop staring at me," Lovino mumbled, his head bowed as he worked. "You're lucky that I'm here, otherwise you'd already be dead."

Antonio frowned. "You're not _supposed_ to be here, you little stowaway." He toyed with Lovino's curling hair affectionately, but the boy slapped his hand away.

Angrily, he said: "Stop smiling at me! Do you actually think this is funny? You could've died, Toni!"

He pulled the needle from Antonio's skin, knotted the thread, then cut the excess. Only then did his slender hands start trembling.

"You jerk," he said softly, turning away. "You could've died and you don't even care. Is that why you locked me in here? Is that why you won't let me do anything or go anywhere?"

Tears welled in his eyes, but before Lovino could hide them, Antonio pulled his foster-brother into a hug. He held the boy tightly, fighting his weak protests.

"Let go! You stupid, fucking bastard, let go of me! I hate you!" he cried, clutching Antonio's shoulders. "You would've just died and left me here alone! Like you would've left me behind in Italy! You don't care about me—you've _never_ cared!"

Antonio held Lovino securely, pressing his cheek to the boy's silky crown as he sobbed. He let Lovino rage, all the while knowing in his heart:

_That's not true_. _You shouldn't even be here_ , _Lovi. It's too dangerous. Do you know how many risks I_ don't _take because you're here_? _Do you know how many ships I let slip by me because I'm afraid to engage them with you on-board_? _I keep you locked in this cabin so that you don't follow me into combat. I'd never forgive myself if you got hurt. I do care about you_. _And it scares me. There's no one in the world I care for more than you and it fucking terrifies me._

Lovino pressed his soft cheek to Antonio's warm, bare chest, hugging him close. " _I hate you_ ," he whispered.

Antonio smiled. "I know."


	7. Five

**BONNEFOI**

Francis awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling refreshed. Typically a late-sleeper, he was surprised to find himself awake before Arthur, whom he was holding. Half-naked beneath the bed-sheet, legs tangled together on the small cot, he hugged Arthur and prepared to fall back to sleep. They had switched places sometime in the night. Francis pillowed his head on Arthur's chest and pressed his lips to his lover's warm, freckled skin, kissing him. Arthur murmured sleepily as he awoke. His chest rose as he inhaled and he squeezed his eyes before opening them. They looked strikingly green against his rosy skin, awash of butter-yellow in the dawn light seeping in from under the curtain. He looked younger than his twenty-two years. He looked beautiful.

" _Bonjour_ , _chéri_."

Arthur hesitated, then his lips curled into a receptive smile. He reached up and finger-combed Francis' hair back, revealing his face. "'Morning," he said quietly. "Alfred and Matthew—?"

"Still sleeping, it's early," Francis replied, quelling Arthur's concern. The Englishman's skin blushed pink and his bright eyes darted to the cell's door and back, but he responded to Francis' touch. Despite his bravado, the English captain was quite sensitive. Francis pushed himself onto his elbows and pressed his lips to Arthur's, provoking a sigh. He let his hands slip down, holding Arthur's slender waist, squeezing him, and felt him shiver in anticipation. Arthur cupped the back of Francis' head and leant forward to deepen the kiss. For the second time in twelve-hours, Francis' heart swelled. He felt so effortlessly happy; he couldn't explain it. _I love you_ , he thought, certain of it as he caressed Arthur's soft skin. Every doubt in his mind—the fear of being fooled and taken advantage of, that Arthur _was_ abusing his position; afraid that it was a mistake to get attached to the captain and boys; afraid of the scaffold and his pending death—had disappeared last night. None of it mattered anymore, because:

" _Je t'aime_ , _Arthur_."

Arthur opened his mouth to reply—

Then the curtain was pulled forcefully back.

The first-mate's eyes glared down at them in disgust. "I knew it," he said.

Arthur leapt up as if scalded, pushing Francis off. He reached for the cell door, but the first-mate slammed it shut, locking them both inside.

"I knew you were a fucking cocksucker," he snarled cruelly.

"Open the door! That's an order!" Arthur demanded, but it was weak. His voice was shaky in panic.

"Oh, you won't be giving orders anymore. I'll make sure of it, since you've broken the law against sodomy." The first-mate nodded curtly at Francis. "I _knew_ there was something wrong with you," he repeated. "When we reach England, I'm going to have you tried beside your filthy French lover _._ They'll strip you of your rank and, if you're lucky, you might get off with a fine. But if there's any justice in the world you'll hang alongside the fucking frog. And them," he pointed to the bed, where the two boys had roused, woken by the noise. Their heads poked up curiously, sensing danger. "If they're really your sons and they've got your cocksucker blood then I'll throw them overboard right now."

"NO!" Arthur and Francis yelled together. Arthur grabbed the cell's bars. "They're not mine, I swear it! I just found them on the island! I'm just taking them back to England, to an orphanage! Please don't hurt them, they're just innocent children!"

The first-mate folded his arms. He seemed to enjoy watching the lofty captain beg, half-naked and desperate.

Francis glared at him with unadulterated, unforgiveable hatred. _How did he even get in here_? he wondered, then remembered the cabin's broken lock. _Damn it_! He clenched his fists, feeling fury eat his patience. He wanted to hurt this man. If this self-important second-in-command tried to hurt his boys then nothing would be enough to save him from Francis' wrath. Not the scaffold, nor hell itself. He would lose control, just like he would if Arthur died.

_Kill me_ , he thought carelessly. His fate had been inescapable for months, but the others deserved the chance to live. _If you want to punish us_ , _then kill me. Kill me in the most gruesome way possible_ , _I don't care. But don't hurt them._

"Don't touch them!" he snarled as the first-mate neared the bed. The boys shied from him.

"Please, don't do this!" Arthur begged. "They're just children!"

The first-mate smiled in mock-innocence. "What? If you say they're not yours then I have no reason to hurt them," he said, grabbing for Alfred. Alfred dodged him, so the first-mate snatched Mathieu instead. Ignoring Alfred's protests, he carried Mathieu to the cell and, holding his chin, forced him to look at his two surrogate parents. "Take a good look, lad. These are bad men and soon they're going to die."

"Stop it," said Francis, dangerously quiet. His fury was palpable, but he didn't want to frighten little Mathieu.

The first-mate ignored the threat—as well as Alfred, who was beating his fists on his leg. Instead, he brought his face close to Mathieu's, and said: "Tell them you hate them. Tell them how bad they are. Tell them how wrong and fucking disgusting they are. Go on, _tell them_!" he shouted, shaking the boy. A frightened sob escaped Mathieu, but no words.

Alfred shouted: "Stop it! Stop! I hate you! Let Mattie go!" He kicked the first-mate, who spat in annoyance and grabbed Alfred around the belly, then carried them back to the bed. Alfred wriggled and cried-out: "Daddy! Papa, help!" When he tried to scramble off the bed, the first-mate struck him across the cheek and the child fell back, dazed.

" _Motherfucker_!" Arthur seethed. "Don't you dare touch him!" He clutched the bars tightly, white-knuckled. His voice shook in rage. "I swear, I'll fucking kill you if you hurt them!"

"Save your breath, _Captain_. You'll need it for your defense, which reminds me," he said, feigning surprise. "I have to draft a letter to the Admiral to tell him what a lowlife cocksucker our captain turned out to be. This won't take long, don't go anywhere," he mocked, planting himself down at Arthur's desk. He snapped his fingers at the boys, who were trying to sneak off. " _Stay_!" he growled.

Cowed in fear, they sat. Alfred stuck his tongue, defiant even with tears on his cheeks.

The first-mate dipped a quill in ink and narrated as he wrote:

"...for charges of treason, sodomy, and kidnapping..." He paused, considering the boys huddle on the bed. "I wonder," he mused, "if I can add indecent treatment of children..."

" _Don't you dare_!" Arthur snapped.

The first-mate ignored him, his eyes fixed on Alfred and Mathieu. "They _are_ pretty cute little things. Maybe I won't just leave them in England. I bet I could get a good price for them back south, or in the east. Some people have sicker tastes than you two." He jutted his chin at the cell. "I could auction them both off to the highest brothel bidder and retire on the profit. That doesn't sound like too bad a plan." Casually, he turned back and smirked at the appalled looks on his prisoners' faces. "I'd make a small fortune on the purple-eyed one alone. People pay big for rarities like that, and the younger the better."

Neither Arthur or Francis deigned to reply, both too angry for words.

The first-mate shrugged and resumed his letter-writing.

Silently, Francis nudged Arthur and nodded to his bloodstained shirt lying haphazardly on the floor beside the cot. Arthur frowned in misunderstanding. Cautious of the first-mate's suspicious gaze, Francis pressed two fingers gently into Arthur's naked side, mimicking a gun.

_The pistol you gave me_ _is beneath my shirt_. _I left it there last night._

Arthur's green eyes widened with rekindled hope, then he frowned. Silently, he mouthed: _Still jammed_?

Francis nodded and Arthur bit his lip in regret. They couldn't fetch the pistol and have enough time to reload it before the first-mate shot them both, not without a distraction. The man would claim the murder as self-defense, and, technically, he would be right. But Francis didn't know what other choice they had. The slightest movement from either of them drew the first-mate's unwanted attention. It was his strict attention to detail, not his people skills, that had earned him his place as second-in-command.

When Arthur kicked the cot in frustration, the man snapped:

"Oi! Don't go throwing a tantrum, Captain. I've already got two wee brats to deal with. It'd be a bloody shame if they somehow got hurt because of you."

It was a thinly-veiled threat: _If you don't cooperate_ , _I'll punish the boys._

Alfred bristled—he disliked being called names—but Mathieu was watching the cell, where his parents were imprisoned. He locked eyes with Francis and the Frenchman was once again reminded of a dog awaiting orders.

_He's such an obedient boy_ , _such a diligent student—_

Suddenly a thought struck him. It was risky, but it might be the distraction they needed to retrieve the pistol. Breaking eye-contact to avoid suspicion, Francis began to speak slowly and clearly in French:

" _Don't be scared_ , _darling. The captain and I are going to be fine_ , _but there is something I need you to do._ "

"Oi, be quiet!" the first-mate snapped. Despite his reservoir of talents, he didn't speak a word of French. "I can't stand the sound of fucking French."

Francis ignored him. " _I need you and your brother to run and hide in your tent_ , _okay_? _Do you understand_? _Don't be scared_."

Mathieu's eyes jerked to the first-mate and back, afraid of being hit, and Francis almost told him to forget it. He would hate himself if either boy got hurt because of his plan, but he steeled himself. Mathieu was good at following direction ( _thank God he paid attention during our French lessons_ ). If Francis or Arthur told him to do something, he would do it, no questions asked.

" _Trust me_ , _darling. Take your brother and run to your tent_. _Make lots of noise and_ _let that man see you do it_. _I won't let him hurt you_ , _I promise._ "

Arthur frowned. His limited knowledge of French was enough to worry, but not comprehend Francis' orders. Discretely, Francis squeezed his hand in confidence:

_Trust me_.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

I said shut the fuck up!" the first-mate glowered at Francis.

Arthur glared, angry at the other man and himself. He felt foolish for his recklessness. In his panic, he began to reconsider every decision he had made since leaving the Caribbean:

_I shouldn't have taken the boys_. _I shouldn't have fallen for Francis_. _I shouldn't have let Francis fuck me like bloody prison-inmates_. _I should've kept a closer eye on that fucking first-mate. This is all my fault_. _Everything that's happened is my fault. I could've prevented all of it. If the lads get hurt because of me_ , _I'll never forgive myself._

But the boys looked less afraid than Arthur felt. Alfred's cheek was swelling, but he glared at the back of the first-mate's head in angry rebellion. Matthew was statuesque. Arthur didn't know what Francis had said to the boy in French, but he was staring intently now, like a sheepdog awaiting a signal.

_Just what did you tell him_?

He looked at Francis in accusation.

_If he endangers himself because of what you told him—_

He felt Francis' hand take his and squeeze gently in confidence. His blue eyes said: _Trust me._

Arthur nodded.

The instant the first-mate bowed his head to the writing-desk, Francis said: " _Now_."

Matthew grabbed Alfred's hand and jumped down from the bed. He pulled his twin across the cabin toward the table, kicking chess pieces and scattering bottles and documents. The first-mate whipped around, surprised by the noise and blatant disobedience. Alfred snatched a rook and fired it with scary precision, hitting the man's chest as he hollered: "Take that!" The first-mate lunged at the boys, but they disappeared beneath the tablecloth. He knelt down to retrieve them.

Arthur said: "Francis—!"

Francis sunk to his knees, collected the pistol, and shoved it into Arthur's outstretched hand. From there, the Englishman needed no instruction. He worked deftly as he opened the pistol's chamber and quickly reloaded it. He had done it so often that his hands moved habitually. It only took seconds and then _clicked_ loudly. The first-mate's head emerged from beneath the table, irately dragging a little blonde boy with him. When he saw the pistol's barrel aimed at him he lifted Alfred to use as a shield. But Arthur's arm didn't lower and his aim didn't waver, not even when Francis shouted: " _Wait_ , _you'll hit Alfred_!"

Arthur's gaze locked with Alfred's and he knew the little boy was unafraid. He trusted Arthur, just as Arthur had trusted Francis, and Francis had trusted Matthew.

_I'm here_ , he silently told Alfred, who had gone entirely still. _I'll protect you_. _I won't miss._

He squeezed the trigger and fired the fourth bullet.

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

The bullet flew past Alfred's head and pierced the first-mate's forehead, lodging in the back of his skull. It killed him instantly. The force knocked him backwards and blood exploded from the hole, spraying Alfred as he hit the floor. He scrambled for freedom, kicking the corpse in retaliation. Then he ran to the cell.

" _Alfred_!" Francis gasped. On his knees, he reached through the bars to inspect the boy's splattered face. "Are you okay?"

Alfred didn't reply. His eyes were plastered to the smoking pistol in Arthur's hand, staring at the Englishman in awe and admiration.

Then the door flew open. "Captain, I heard a gunshot!" gasped the cabin-boy. "Is everything okay—Oh, uh... Captain?"

He stopped short when he saw the scene: the half-naked captain trapped inside a cell with an equally naked Frenchman, two little boys cowering in front, and the dead first-mate lying in a pool of blood. His eyebrows shot into his hairline in surprise and he stared, slack-jawed in disbelief.

Arthur dropped the empty pistol. "Oh, thank God it's you." The older sailors might've been suspicious of him, but the fifteen-year-old youth idolized the captain. "Don't just stand there gawking at us, lad!" Arthur urged. "Get the key and open the cell! It's in my desk drawer." He pointed.

"Oh! Yes, sir—Captain, sir!"

The boys backed away as the cabin-boy unlocked the cell, releasing the two men inside. In gratitude, Arthur shook the youth's hand: "Smashing work, lad! Thank-you!" Then he knelt in front of Alfred and Matthew and hugged them in relief, apologising repeatedly: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, wee loves. You're safe now, I promise."

Francis said: "Thank-you!" to the cabin-boy as he hurried past. "Are you okay, _chéris_? Don't be afraid, that horrible man is gone."

As Francis fussed over the boys, the cabin-boy blinked. "Uh, Captain? What's going on?"

Arthur hesitated. "Uh, yes... that's a valid question."

He stood and faced the expectant youth. It was unwise to involve more people than necessary, the less people who knew the details the better, but Francis realized as much as Arthur did that they would need the cabin-boy's help convincing the crew of the first-mate's betrayal. It wouldn't be good for he or the boys if Arthur was suspected of cold-blooded murder and executed. He only hoped that the cabin-boy was as subtle as he was kind-hearted. Francis let Arthur do the explaining while he focused on the boys, cleaning the blood off of Alfred's face and then smothering them both in affection to chase away any lingering fears. They had recovered quickly from the excitement, but Francis was unconvinced of their well-being. _I really hope all this violence doesn't permanently traumatise them._ He rocked them gently as he listened to Arthur tell an edited version of the truth. The cabin-boy looked curiously between he and Francis, speculating the details Arthur omitted, but he listened intently and nodded eagerly, ready to prove himself a trustworthy confidant.

"Yes, sir!" he said, promising to keep Arthur's secret. "I'll tell everyone of the first-mate's attempted mutiny. I'll tell them he tried to murder the little ones, and that you were only defending your sons, sir. That's why you shot him," he recited.

"Good man," Arthur nodded in praise.

The cabin-boy left, chest puffed-out proudly, and Arthur sighed. He smiled wearily and sank into his desk chair. "Alright, lads?"

Meekly, Mathieu nodded. Alfred said: "Yes, Daddy."

Francis saw Arthur instinctively tense and lower his gaze. He sympathized with the Englishman's situation, of course, but he also felt a stab of envy. He couldn't understand why Arthur shied away every time the boys tried to get close to him and show him affection. He took care of them, taught them, played with them, and protected them. He had rescued them several times now, swooping in like a fairytale hero when they needed him, but when Alfred verbally confessed his feelings, Arthur never acknowledged it.

_They both love you_ , _why won't you accept that_? Francis wondered. _And it's obvious that you love them too_ , _so why deny it_?

The silence stretched, growing heavy as the boys watched Arthur, waiting for a reply. Alfred's big, blue eyes stared expectantly at the Englishman, who pretended not to notice.

Finally, Francis' heart couldn't take it anymore.

"Arthur?" he prompted. "Alfred is speaking to you."

Arthur didn't look at them, not at Francis or the boys. Meekly, he said: "No, Alfred. I'm not your..."

He swallowed and shook his head. Then he gestured to the first-mate's corpse.

"Francis, help me remove the body."


	8. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. I hope that everyone is keeping healthy and well. :)

**KIRKLAND**

**COAST OF ENGLAND**

So, uh... we'll be docking in a few hours," said Arthur.

It was early-morning, before sunrise. Francis was perched on the edge of the bed, staring out the small window at the rocky English coast. A low-hanging fog made the shoreline look eerie.

"Okay," he said inanimately. His sapphire eyes winked briefly in the weak light as he turned, gazing back at Arthur. He smiled sadly, then reached down and tenderly caressed the sleeping boys. "There's nothing like near-death to make you appreciate new life," he sighed mournfully, pushing back Alfred's cowlick. "I suppose you've already transcribed the charges against me?"

"Yes, I did it six weeks ago. Do you want to see it?"

"No, I don't care," he said. He moved fluidly, wanting to be closer to the twins. He leant down and brushed his knuckles gently over Matthew's rosy cheek. The boy sighed in response and unconsciously snuggled into Francis' touch. "Please don't abandon them, Arthur. They need you—"

"Don't do this to me, Francis. Not now."

Arthur had been trying to ignore the bite of pending loneliness for days, ever since he realized how close _The Rose_ was getting to England. He loved England, of course, he couldn't wait to dock, but if he could extend the journey for just a little longer; if he could prolong his time with Francis and the boys just a little more, he would.

_I can't think like that_ , _nothing has changed._ _It'll only hurt more later if I let myself want them now._

"You know I can't adopt them," he said to Francis as much as to himself. "I'm a captain of the Royal Navy. I can't raise two children on a ship and I can't afford a house and a governess to look after them. Besides, they deserve more than an empty house and a father who's always gone."

"Yes, they do," Francis agreed. He glanced hopefully at Arthur. "I know you think that you're an unfit parent, but you're wrong. These boys love you and you love them, don't deny it. Isn't that enough?"

Arthur held Francis' insistent gaze, fighting it. "You can't live on love," he said logically. "Those boys deserve more than what I alone can give them. They need two parents, a home. Someone else will adopt them and they'll both be better for it—"

"No, please, Arthur." Francis stood up abruptly. "You have the chance to be so much more than just _Captain Kirkland of the Royal Navy_. Don't let it go. Don't let _them_ go.

"I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of," he said regrettably. "I've made many mistakes, and if I could take them back I would. I was so reckless before, but if I could have a second chance now, I wouldn't waste it. I would want to be their papa. I would play with them, and teach them, and spoil them, and protect them, and watch them grow up into wonderful young men. There wouldn't ever be a doubt that I love them. I would hold them in my arms every day and thank God for that second chance. But I fucked-up and I can't take it back. I _can't_ be Alfred and Mathieu's papa, but _you_ can. Please don't let them go." There were tears in Francis' blue eyes, hiding no lies. "You deserve them too, Arthur."

Arthur swallowed. "You really do love them, don't you?"

Francis nodded. "I don't think I need to tell you how painful this is, knowing that tomorrow will be the last time I'll ever see them. That tomorrow..."

His voice broke and a tear fell. It was the first time that Arthur had seen him show fear for himself and what awaited him. When Francis didn't move to wipe the tear off, Arthur did. He reached up and cupped the Frenchman's face, brushing his thumb over his cheek. Francis covered Arthur's hand with his and lowered it to his velvet lips. He pressed a kiss to Arthur's palm, never breaking eye-contact. Arthur's heart clenched. The sadness in Francis' tone was palpable when he whispered:

"Please don't throw them away."

Slowly, Arthur drew back. "I'm sorry, truly I am."

Francis pursed his lips as tears flooded his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. He blinked them away.

"Let me stay here tonight," he begged, indicating the bed. "Please, just let me hold them for one last night."

Wordlessly, Arthur nodded.

* * *

Seven hours later _The Rose_ reached port in England. Francis hadn't slept a wink, and Arthur knew this because he hadn't slept either. His mind was too wired, too worried to sleep, so he stayed awake pretending not to watch Francis cradle the peacefully sleeping boys. Now he felt lethargic as he readied the ship to disembark. Watching Francis bathe and dress the boys, wanting to spend as much time as possible with them, Arthur had never felt more like a villain in his life. He tried to busy himself with other things, but his gaze kept straying back to the pirate and children.

Francis washed and snipped Alfred's feathery wheat-blonde hair, styling it not unlike Arthur's. He was going to do the same to Matthew's locks, but the boy shook his head and held his hands over his head to prevent it. It made Arthur chuckle.

"You always tell him that he has lovely French hair," he said. "I think he wants to wear it long like yours."

In reply, Francis took the black ribbon out of his own hair and pulled Matthew's curls into a bow. He touched the boy's cheek, smiling, then turned away.

_I shouldn't have said anything_ , Arthur thought belatedly, as Francis splashed his face with tepid water. For a minute the Frenchman just stood there, shoulders arched and hands covering his face.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Captain?" called the newly promoted first-mate. "We're docking, sir."

"Yes, very well," Arthur replied. Even he could hear how hollow his voice sounded. He cleared his throat, and ordered: "Prepare to disembark."

Disembarking meant putting Francis back in irons. It confused the boys when Arthur put the Frenchman in manacles, locking them behind his back, but they trusted him. And that's what hurt the most. They didn't understand what was happening—they were even excited to see England, which they had heard so much about—but, whatever the future held, they trusted Arthur and Francis to take care of them. They had both grown so much in the past six weeks. Physically they were no longer the weak boys they had been, and emotionally they were no longer timid and defensive. Arthur was proud of them, so clever and sweet and lively. Alfred still hated lessons and Matthew still wouldn't speak, but they had come a long way from being two starving, abused orphans in the attic. He was glad that they had grown more confident; they would need it to survive.

Playing the entitled captain, Arthur left Francis to the escort of his crew while he took Alfred and Matthew's hands. "Stay close," he advised, descending the long gangplank into a bustling throng. He had dressed the boys for the cool, damp weather (it was raining—he secured their hoods) and paraded them down the wide cobbled street. Alfred skipped along, whooping in joy, giggling, and talking incoherently as he pointed at storefronts and street-venders. He tugged at Arthur's shirtsleeve in excitement. Matthew held tight to Arthur's hand, cautious and shy, but his violet eyes searched the busy streets in wonder. Arthur felt like a liar, letting them both rejoice. Carefully, he avoided Francis' fervent gaze.

_Don't look at me like that_. He could practically feel the Frenchman's desperate eyes boring into him. _They'll be better off without me._

At a crossroads he stopped suddenly; Alfred crashed into his leg. He had been so focused on the boys and not looking at Francis that he hadn't realized how quickly he had been walking. The boys had tripped and stumbled along, but he had incorrectly assumed it was just a side-effect of living on a rocking ship. He stood on the boardwalk, acutely aware that everyone was looking at him expectantly, awaiting his orders. He took a deep breath, and said:

"Right then, this is where we part ways."

Alfred's cornflower-blue eyes grew wide in disbelief. He glanced from Francis to Arthur. "Papa—?"

"Francis has to leave us now, lads. Say goodbye."

Francis shouldered off his escort and sunk to his knees, looking at the boys eye-to-eye. They ran to him and hugged him, confusing the guards. Francis tried to return the embrace, but his hands were locked behind his back. Instead, he bowed his head and nuzzled them affectionately, pressing his cheeks against them. The boys clutched him with tiny, pudgy hands, misunderstanding his grief. It scared them. It was hard for Arthur to watch. Alfred said: "It's okay, Papa," which provoked a sad, strangled sound from Francis. He buried his face and kissed Alfred and Matthew until he was pulled roughly away.

"Be good, _mes chéris_. Take good care of _Capitaine_ Arthur, okay? He needs it. I love you," he told them. "I love you both _so much_. Don't ever f-forget that."

Then he looked up at Arthur, tears falling unabashedly from his shining blue eyes.

_Don't say it_ , Arthur thought, begged. His heart clenched in his chest. _Please_ , _don't do this to me—_

" _Au revoir_ , _mon coeur_."

The guards lifted Francis by his biceps and impatiently dragged him back. The boys both tried to follow, but Arthur grabbed them. He held them as Francis was led down a narrow, grey street toward the walls of the prison.

"Farewell, Francis Bonnefoi," he whispered, and he pulled the boys in the opposite direction.

"No, no—wait!" Alfred struggled. "What about Papa? Papa's not here!

" _Papa_!" he yelled, drawing unwanted attention.

Arthur set his jaw and ignored Alfred's tantrum as he continued walking, too fast for the boys' short gait. He wanted to get as far away from this— _this moment_ —as fast as possible. But first he had to finish it.

Matthew tripped on the cobblestone and only stayed on his feet because Arthur was gripping him fiercely. "Sorry," he apologized, lifting both boys. He carried them the rest of the way, walking so fast it was nearly a jog. But if he slowed, then emotion would eat at his resolve and he would start to doubt himself. And he couldn't doubt himself. Not today.

By the time he reached the orphanage, he was panting. It looked like a nonthreatening building, like a block brick-and-timber schoolhouse, but he felt Matthew instinctively tense. He hadn't made a peep since leaving _The Rose_ , which worried Arthur. Matthew was an incredibly observant child apt at reading other people's emotions, and Arthur prayed that this whole experience did not traumatize him further. Alfred, on the other hand, looked confused now. He didn't seem to know if he should be afraid or excited as he studied the entrance-hall, spotting other young children. Apprehensively, he stayed close to Matthew. Arthur left them in the entrance—with difficulty; he had to pry them off himself—with a nun as he spoke to the Headmistress about the boys' admittance. They briefly discussed the boys' age, health, schooling, and lineage, which Arthur pretended not to know. Then he pushed a purse of coins across the table.

"I suppose we can accommodate two more," she said, pocketing the bribe. "May I see them?"

In the entrance the twins stood close together exactly where Arthur had left them, both eyeing the nun's kind smile wearily. The Headmistress' eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise.

"My word! They're so pretty!" she smiled. "When you said that you had found them in the colonies, Captain, I was expecting two bony castaways, but these boys have been very well cared for. Just look at how clean and healthy they are! Hello pigeons," she said, advancing on them.

Shyly, Alfred and Matthew ran and hid behind Arthur's legs, hugging him. He smiled at the Headmistress in apology. "Err... they're just a bit shy. Come on now, lads, don't be rude," he coaxed them. "This nice lady is going to look after you for a while—"

" _No_!" Alfred screamed, loud and abrupt. His voice filled the entrance-hall. "I don't want to! I want to go back to the ship wiff you! Pwease? I want to go home! Let's go!" He tugged fervently on Arthur's hand.

"Alfred, don't fuss." Arthur knelt down. He took the boy's thin shoulders and faced him. "This is a nicer place than that drafty old ship. You'll be much better off here, pet. You'll be better taken care of—"

"No! I don't want to!" Alfred repeated, pouting. Big, pearly tears beaded in his bright eyes, threatening to fall. "Pwease! I don't wanna stay here! _I don't wanna_!" he screamed even louder. "I wanna go wiff you, Dad—"

" _No_ ," said Arthur sternly. He glanced between the boys: Alfred, who was fighting; and Matthew, who hadn't moved. "Listen to me, I am _not_ your father. I never was. I never..." _wanted to be_ , but that was a lie. "I'm sorry, but you have to stay here."

Involuntarily, his voice broke. He fought down the raw emotion that threatened to choke him. He tried to maintain his composure as he pried off Alfred's grabbing fingers. Red-faced, the boy started to wail.

_It'll only be harder for them if I break down_ , _too. I have to stay strong._

He had seen how much Francis' fear had scared them. Instead, Arthur tried to steel his heart against grief, searching for the logical, cold-hearted captain that he had been six weeks ago, but it was useless. That man was gone.

"I'm sorry," he repeated softly.

He stood and watched as the Headmistress took the boys: Alfred, kicking and screaming; and Matthew, as still and silent as a statue. Arthur had never seen those violet eyes look so betrayed. And again he felt like a villain, no better than those he hunted.

" _Daddy_ , _pwease_ —!" Alfred cried, reaching-out desperately. " _Don't go_!"

Arthur swallowed a sob and speechlessly shook his head. _I'm sorry._

Then he left. He turned his back on the boys who trusted him and left the orphanage as fast as he could. He couldn't stay there, it was too painful. He couldn't watch as cruel reality shattered the boys' naive hopes and dreams, misunderstanding what they had done wrong; why Arthur and Francis were leaving them. He couldn't watch the fear of abandonment pool in their big, innocent eyes. It hurt so much more than he had expected. ( _I wish it didn't hurt_!) Arthur clutched his chest. His heart was pounding from loss, grief, regret. But he couldn't go back. He couldn't watch Alfred and Matthew's hearts break.

_You abandoned them_ , _just like you were abandoned_. _You've hurt them like you were hurt. You've left them alone like you promised you wouldn't_.

Arthur made it halfway down the street before he had to stop. He was trembling. He ducked into an alley and leant against the wall for support, holding both hands over his mouth to stifle his voice as tears flooded his eyes, as sobs wracked his body.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

**THE NEXT DAY**

Francis spent the worst night of his life in an empty, dark, cold cell all alone. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He didn't speak to the gaoler who got frustrated and hit him with a baton when he didn't reply. He didn't care. He had already lost everything that he loved. Nothing they did to him now could hurt more than that.

He had once suffered at the hands of many men who did not love him. So, why did it hurt so much more now to suffer because of one who did?

Love wasn't supposed to hurt.

At daybreak the gaoler returned and unlocked the cell, gesturing for Francis. He picked himself up from the dirt floor and walked slowly, mechanically, seeing nothing as they marched him into a bleak courtyard. The scaffold looked anticlimactic: just wood and nails and a thick length of braided rope that was re-measured for each execution. It was raining. There was a lineup of several inmates awaiting the same fate as him. Toothless and hollow-eyed, some who had been rotting in prison for months. He counted himself lucky to have arrived so late. At least he didn't have to wait for death. He was manhandled roughly into the lineup and chained to the others, one of which leered at him, and another who squeezed his backside, making him flinch. The prisoner's eyes seemed to say: _Why not_? _What have I got to lose now_? Francis didn't want to agree, but his swinging fate was staring him right in the face.

The warden was a spidery man with spectacles, who barely glanced in the inmates' direction as he passed. He spoke to the gaolers for a minute, then accepted a handful of paperwork from his secretary.

_My name is in that pile_ , he thought, _in Arthur's careful handwriting. A death sentence signed by my lover._

He couldn't help but smile a little at the mirthless irony.

_How very appropriate for an English romance_.

When Francis left the Mediterranean at fourteen-years-old, he had fully expected—intended—to die. After what had happened to him in Italy, he had hated himself and everyone else and had just wanted it all to end. He had expected to die at sea. An accident, an illness, a drowning, a murder; he didn't care how it happened. He just wanted it to happen fast. But even on his darkest days, he had never expected that it would hurt this much. He had thought he knew what hurt was after running away, but the horror of his past was nothing compared to the heartache he felt now. He had always been a romantic, in love with the concept of love, but he had never truly experienced it. He thought he had as a rambunctious youth, but he was wrong. Everything about _The Rose_ and Arthur Kirkland had been more real than he could have imagined. The night they had had sex was clear in his mind. So was the night they had all slept together in the captain's bed, he holding Arthur and the two little boys whom he cherished. He replayed the memory now, knowing that it— _they—_ had been more than he deserved. More than he had ever dared to hope for. And he was grateful.

At least he would die with happy memories, knowing that he had loved and was loved in return.

_Why did I have to realize it so late_? _Why couldn't I have found them_ _before I decided to make a complete mess of my life_?

It would have been so much easier back then. They could have been together like a real family. He could have found work in an isolated village where nobody asked questions, one that was easily accessible by sea; and he could have spent his days teaching and nurturing and playing with his beautiful boys, Alfred and Mathieu, singing them to sleep on the long nights when Arthur was away; and they would have all ran down the to shore to welcome him home from a journey, and they would have laughed and kissed in happy reunion; and once the boys were tucked into their beds, safe and sleepy from playing with the exotic toys Arthur brought them, Francis would take his lover in his arms and make up for all of the lonely nights when Arthur was away; all the lost time, every time, yet never rushing because he knew that they had all the time in the world to be together.

He wondered if everyone desired what they couldn't have before their death?

_We could've been so happy_.

As the convict lineup moved forward, men plunging to their deaths, Francis' mind worried about Alfred and Mathieu.

_I hope they're safe and happy with Arthur_. _I hope he didn't give them up. Even if I can't be a part of it_ , _they deserve to be happy together. They can still live that dream._

"Francis Bonnefoi," called the warden. Tonelessly, he read-out Francis' charges as a gaoler grabbed his bicep and jostled him up the scaffold's creaking steps to where the hangman waited. The burly man positioned Francis on a trapdoor and looped the thick noose around his neck. It was coarse and itchy and Francis automatically sucked in his breath when the hangman tightened it.

_I hope my neck breaks_ , he thought, looking up at the clouded sky. Icy raindrops slid over his angled face. He had never expected to die so far away from home—wherever home was. He missed France, his birthplace, but couldn't deny that it would seem like too big and lonesome a place without someone to share it with. _I wish I could see the sun again_ , _just one last time_.

"Have you any final words?" asked the warden repetitively.

_Yes I do_ , _but they're not for you._

The warden shrugged at Francis' silence and nodded to the hangman. Francis took a deep breath and held it. Suddenly, he was scared. A tear rolled down his cheek.

_Alfred. Mathieu. Arthur_ , _please_ _don't forget me._

The hangman grabbed the lever—

* * *

_STOP_!"

Francis inhaled sharply. He knew that voice.

_Arthur_.

Arthur was flushed and doubled-over, clutching his knees as he panted. "S-stop!" he gasped, gesturing at the hangman. "I made a mistake. That's not Francis Bonnefoi," he said, holding a crumpled message.

The warden cocked an eyebrow incredulously, then nodded at the hangman to release the lever. Francis felt a small tinge of relief, but his heart was pounding.

"It's not?" asked the warden flatly. He looked down at the paperwork in his hand. "Is this not your signature, Captain Kirkland?"

"Yes it is, but the charges are wrong. I made a mistake," Arthur repeated. "That man is _not_ the pirate wanted by the crown. The man you're looking for died off the coast of Spain three days ago, shot by pirates. His body now lies at the bottom of the North Atlantic. In the aftermath of battle, this man"—he pointed to Francis—"was put into his cell by mistake. All Frenchmen seem alike and the crew got confused." He shrugged, feigning indifference. "He had been a captive of the Spanish pirates, but he doesn't understand English so I never realized what had happened until now."

He handed the message to the warden, who unrolled it, eyeing him skeptically. While he read, Arthur locked eyes with Francis. The Englishman looked pale, scared. _Is that for me_? Francis thought hopefully. He pursed his lips, readying to speak, but Arthur shook his head in warning. Instead, he snapped at the hangman:

"What are you just standing there for? Release that man! He's innocent!"

The hangman looked skeptically to the warden for confirmation. The warden sighed and nodded. The noose and manacles were removed, and Francis jumped off the scaffold and jogged eagerly to Arthur's side. He wanted so badly to throw his arms around the Englishman and hug him, but didn't. He settled for standing at Arthur's side.

The warden folded the message meticulously and glared pointedly at Arthur. "I don't know what second-rate institution you crawled out of, Kirkland, but this is unacceptable. Are you telling me that you are so unbelievably inept at your job that you can't keep track of captives aboard your own vessel? This prison does not tolerate _mistakes_ ," he patronized. Arthur stepped back, cowed by the warden's steely-eyed reproach. The gaolers snickered at the belittled naval captain, but the warden continued without consideration. "This is a crown institution. This is the real world, not a bleeding fairy-land, _boy_. These are people's lives you're playing with. It's not a fucking game. I'll be writing a formal complaint to the Royal Navy about your conduct here, _Captain_ , or complete lack thereof.

"This," he shoved Francis' paperwork roughly at Arthur, "is precisely why they shouldn't let pre-pubescent whelps command naval ships. Thank-you _very much_ for wasting my time."

That said, the warden turned curtly on his heel. "A bloody mistake," he growled in departure.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Arthur led Francis out of the prison. _There goes my promotion_ , he thought briefly, walking quickly but hopefully not suspiciously through the tall gates. He could feel Francis following close behind, but he didn't stop or speak until they were several blocks away. Only then did he take a deep, relieved breath, exhaling his anxiety. He had never lied to the authorities before (not directly anyway).

Francis said: "Why?"

Arthur's heart was pounding so hard he was afraid it would burst. The fear that had struck him when he had seen Francis standing on the scaffold, only seconds away from death, was indescribable. Seconds later and it would have been too late. Francis would have been lost. Even now it terrified Arthur, who hugged himself self-consciously.

"I made a mistake," he admitted softly. He lifted his eyes, Lincoln-green staring honestly into sapphire-blue. "I shouldn't have let you go."

Francis didn't reply with words. He took Arthur's face in his hands and kissed him. He pressed his lips firmly to Arthur's lips; pressed his hips against Arthur's hips, pushing him back against a wet stonewall. Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis' neck and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Arthur could feel Francis' heart pounding in his chest, matching the pace of his own. They pulled apart, then kissed again, again, again. They breathed hard, their lips smacking together in eagerness. Arthur nipped Francis' bottom lip; Francis sucked on Arthur's tongue. Raindrops slid over Arthur's face and the wind blew Francis hair into his face, plastering it to his cheek. The wind was cold, but Francis' skin was warm and smooth. Arthur arched into his body, wanting to touch more of him, skin-to-skin. It felt so good being held by Francis. The French ex-pirate, now officially deceased.

_I want this_ , Arthur realized, feeling happiness flood him. _I want you_ , _Francis. Not just for convenience. Not just for one night. I want you forever. I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner._

"I'm sorry," he whispered against Francis' lips. "I'm so sorry I left—"

"No," Francis interrupted, kissing him. "You came back, that's all that matters."

"I want you," Arthur confessed. "I want you to be my family."

Francis smiled, blue eyes shining. "Yes, I want that, too. _Je t'aime_ , _Arthur_. I never want to let you go. I want you and our boys forever."

Arthur nodded. He kissed Francis once more, and then took his hand. "Come on, we've got to hurry."

Francis followed without complaint, but asked: "Where are we going?"

"To get the boys back from the orphanage."

" _What_?" Francis stumbled. "Oh no, Arthur, you didn't—"

"I told you," Arthur repeated sternly, feeling guilty, "I made a mistake. I just hope we're not too late."

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

They reached the orphanage at half-noon, just as the children were finishing their after-dinner chores. Arthur asked to see the Headmistress immediately, who invited the two flustered men into her office. Francis could barely contain his excitement. He was grinning giddily as they entered, eyes glancing from left-to-right as if Alfred and Mathieu were hiding nearby. He couldn't wait to collect the boys and take them and Arthur home—wherever home might be. He didn't care as long as they were together. The Headmistress offered them a seat, but both men declined. She, herself, settled into a wingback armchair and folded her hands over the desk in front of her.

"You're here about the twin boys you left here yesterday, Captain?"

"Yes," said Arthur before Francis could. It was best if he did the talking, being an English non-criminal and a (somewhat) respected patron of society. "Leaving the boys here was a mistake. I want them back," he said bluntly.

The Headmistress sighed. It was not a hopeful sound. "I'm sorry, Captain Kirkland," she said diplomatically, "but I'm afraid those boys are no longer here."

Francis grabbed Arthur's forearm in reflex. He wanted to shout in denial. Fortunately, Arthur did it for him:

" _What_? What do you mean they're not here? It's only been one day!"

"Uh, yes, well... they were both very attractive boys, weren't they?" she replied sheepishly. "A farmer and his wife took them this morning. They wanted a healthy boy young enough to raise for farm labour and, since the twins had been so well cared for, they were the healthiest children here. He said they would be perfect for his purpose, just the right age, and took them both—"

" _Where_?" Arthur demanded, slamming his hands on the desk. " _When_?"

"E-Eastward," she flinched, taken aback by his brashness. "They took the coast road a few hours ago. They left town in a hay-wagon, but you won't catch them before the storm hits." She pointed to the iron-grey sky outside, growing darker. The wind had started to whistle threateningly. "It's going to pour— _Captain_!" she called as they left.

Together, Arthur and Francis sprinted from the orphanage and then broke into a run toward the wharf. They fought the bustling crowd, shouting at people to: " _Bugger-off_!" and " _Get the fuck out of my way_!" Arthur crashed into an on-comer and fell back, but Francis caught him. They barely slowed. They tore down the narrow street and reached the dock where _The Rose_ was anchored, battened for the storm. Wind-tossed waves crashed against her haul. As they raced up the gangplank, Arthur shouted: " _Weigh anchor_ , _hurry_!"

"Everyone's gone, Captain. They're all on leave," reported the startled cabin-boy. "It's just me and a couple of guards left, Captain, sir."

Francis glanced worriedly at Arthur, hope fleeing.

"Weigh anchor," Arthur repeated, leaping onto the foredeck. Francis followed, trusting his judgement. "The eastern road follows the coast," he said, pulling on ropes to ready the ship. Francis joined him. Despite their relative youth, both were apt sailors and moved habitually. They grit their teeth and pulled-up the anchor, then opened the sails to catch a strong wind. Arthur took hold of the wheel, releasing the lock, and nearly fell sideways when it began to spin. Francis grabbed one of the spokes and pulled it back, holding it steady. Together, they fought the storm's pull and steered _The Rose_ into the bay. Francis heard passers-by gasp in surprise, pointing at the departing ship, but he ignored them. Instead, he eyed the angry sky.

"Do you think we'll catch them before the storm hits?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted, "but if we don't try, we'll lose them for sure. I'm willing to risk it.

"I should have listened to you, Francis," he added, looking at the Frenchman beside him. Raindrops pelted his freckled face, plastering wheat-blonde hair to his forehead, but even in fear Arthur was breathtakingly beautiful. He looked small and scared, but stubborn. Determined. "I shouldn't have let the boys go. I wish I hadn't." He shook his head. "This is all my fault—"

"Arthur," said Francis very seriously. "We'll find them, I promise."


	9. Seven

Matthew sat atop the wagon, staring tensely at his clasped hands. He was squished between Alfred and a man called Sir. He was a big man with dirty hands that held Matthew pressed to his side, as if he thought the boy would run. Matthew didn't like the touch. It wasn't like when Arthur or Francis held him, where he felt safe. This felt bad. He couldn't move away from it and it was scary. It reminded him of Serge.

Shivering in the cold rain, he took a deep breath and tried his hardest not to cry. He had felt like crying since Francis left, since the orphanage. But he didn't want anyone to see how upset he was, because he didn't want to get hit. Adults hit when they were angry; when little boys misbehaved and didn't act as they were supposed to. All of them hit except for Arthur and Francis, who merely sighed and shook their heads, and sometimes made funny faces, and sometimes said they were _disappointed_ (which made Matthew's belly feel sorry for misbehaving). Sometimes Arthur's voice got loud, and sometimes Francis _gave up_ and walked away, but neither of them hit.

Mr. Sir would hit. And his wife, too. When Alfred wouldn't stop crying, she did.

"Shut up, you brat!" snapped Mrs. Sir. She slapped Alfred, then pressed her hand to his mouth when he only wailed louder.

Matthew sat perfectly rigid, afraid of what would happen to them if he started crying, too. He had wanted to cry in the orphanage, but Alfred was already crying, and they couldn't _both_ cry. One of them needed to take care of the other, lookout for danger. And besides, Matthew wasn't brave enough to cry in front of the adults. He was too afraid of men like Serge.

Mr. and Mrs. Sir both reminded Matthew of Serge, which made him want to run, but he didn't. He couldn't. Instead, he remembered the terrible, scary man who had kept he and Alfred hidden away in that hot, dirty house. At first he had thought that Mr. Sir was taking them both back to Serge; maybe he still was. Matthew didn't know and it scared him.

Everything scared him.

He wanted to go home. He wanted _The Rose_ and Arthur and Francis.

He watched the stormy, grey sea as the wagon rolled down a rocky road, moving further away from the port and the men who made him feel safe. He already missed living on a ship, like an explorer. He missed the bobbing sea and salt air. He missed his lessons, his playtime. He missed the bed that was too small and too lumpy and perfect for snuggling in. He missed the men who had rescued him. The men he had thought loved him.

What had he done wrong?

He didn't know why Francis had been taken away, or why Arthur had left them in that crowded orphanage. No one in that place had played with them, or sang to them, or told them stories. No one had hugged and kissed them, or tickled them, or told them how sweet and clever and lovely they were. No one had made them finish their supper, or practice vocabulary, or scolded them for being too loud. No one worried when they fell or cried. No one had tucked them into bed and whispered _Je t'aime_. No one in that lonely place had rescued them from drowning and scary first-mates. Alfred had said that Captain Arthur would come back for them, but Matthew didn't believe him.

No one who left them ever came back.

A crack of lightning split the sky, followed by a growl of thunder. Matthew flinched and covered his ears. He hated thunderstorms.

The clouds rolled across the steel-grey sky, the wind blowing fiercely, and it started to rain harder. Matthew hunched his shoulders and grasped the sides of his hood in white-knuckled hands. It didn't matter that the coat was too big for him; it smelled like Arthur.

"You afraid of storms?" Mr. Sir asked. "It's just rain. Just noise. You'd better get used to it, you hear me? Oi!" he snapped. "Don't you ignore me!" He took Matthew's chin in his hand and jerked his head up, squeezing his cheeks. "Answer when I talk to you!"

Matthew made a soft, squeaky noise in fear.

Alfred bit Mrs. Sir's hand, and yelled: " _Don't touch Mattie_!"

She hit him again. He started to scream in spite.

"I told you, didn't I?" said Mrs. Sir to her husband. "We should've taken the other brat, the older one. But no, you wanted the pretty ones, and now we've got a mute and a crier—Oh, _shut up_!" she snarled. She waged her finger in Alfred's face. "None of this racket when we get home, you understand? I won't tolerate it! If you misbehave, you'll be out on your own, I mean it. Do you know what happens to bad little boys who disobey their masters? They don't get to eat," she threatened. "They get punished. So, you pretty, pampered things had better learn to follow orders!"

Mr. Sir nodded. He had released Matthew's face, but held the boy's shoulder tightly. "You'll earn your keep," he sneered. The lightning revealed a lecherous grin. "One way or another, you'll work. You belong to me now."

Matthew paled. He heard Serge's voice in his head: _You belong to me now. You're all mine_.

The frightened child bowed his butter-blonde head and closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. And in a soft, secret whisper, he said:

" _No_."

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Rain drenched _The Rose_ , making the decks slippery and dangerous. And the fog made it difficult to navigate the rocky coast.

"I can't see a bloody thing," Arthur complained, squinting. He was standing at the helm. "Francis!"

Francis was standing on the forecastle-deck, holding a spyglass. The cabin-boy stood beside him, but Arthur couldn't hear their voices, even raised. Finally, Francis climbed down. _The Rose_ pitched, cutting choppily through the waves, but he made it to the helm without incident.

"I can't see anything," he reported. He was soaked and shivering, long ash-blonde hair slicked to his neck. It reminded Arthur of their first meeting, when he had pulled Francis from the sea like a siren caught on a fishhook. "I can barely see the road," he said, lifting the spyglass again.

"I know, I can't— _Fuck_!"

Arthur's hands slipped on the wheel, which pulled hard and fast to the left. Francis tumbled across the deck and slammed into the bulkhead, nearly going over. Arthur had a small heart-attack before the Frenchman regained his balance. It didn't matter than he was just as capable a seafarer as Arthur. It didn't matter that Arthur was in just as much danger as Francis. The Englishman hadn't slept for forty-eight hours and adrenaline was starting to make him frantic, ignoring logic in favour of reckless emotion. He wouldn't lose Francis now that he had him, and he wouldn't give up on this foolhardy pursuit until the boys were safe in his arms.

He only hoped they didn't resent him for leaving. Francis was an adult who understood the laws of the world. The boys were not.

"This is impossible! I can't see any—Wait!" Francis shouted. "There's something on the road, it's got to be a wagon! And there's a bay, sort of. Two kilometers northeast!"

Arthur consulted the compass in his hand and steered the ship inland, careful of the rocks. By the time they had dropped the anchor, Francis had the longboat ready to lower.

"Wait here," he told the skeletal crew. The cabin-boy was the only one to salute:

"Aye-aye, Captain!"

Arthur and Francis climbed into the longboat and lowered it hand-over-fist into the bay, rocking violently. Sea and rainwater pooled at their boots as they rowed, back-to-back. Arthur could feel Francis' muscles working hard against his, using each other for leverage as their arms pumped as fast as they could. The shoreline was very dark and imperceptible, and neither of them realized until the boat scraped the surf. Daylight filtered down through the clouds in pale rivets and thunder crashed loudly, drowning out their voices, but they didn't need to clearly see or hear each other to communicate. Arthur could _feel_ Francis. Instinctively he knew they were doing the same thing, feeling the same thing, trusting each other to achieve their shared goal, which was retrieving the boys.

_Both of whom are terrified of storms_ , Arthur worried.

If— _when_ —he found Alfred and Matthew, Arthur would never let them out of his sight again. Or, at least not for the next fourteen years.

Together, Arthur and Francis jumped out of the longboat and dragged it onto the shore.

"It's a steep climb," Arthur said, eyeing the cliff.

Francis pointed to a rocky ledge, then folded his hands together in indication. "Come on, _chéri_ , up you go."

Holding Francis' shoulders, Arthur stepped onto his hands, then his shoulders. Francis held him steady as he reached for the ledge and pulled himself up. _He's a lot stronger than he looks_ , he thought, impressed. He clawed for a handhold, cursing when he sliced his palm—" _bollocks_!"—but managed the climb without much difficulty. Below him, Francis took a running leap and grabbed Arthur's outstretched hands. He grunted as he hauled the Frenchman up.

"You're a lot stronger than you look," Francis said to him, smiling.

Arthur smirked a little. "You know, if someone had told me two months ago that I'd be clinging to the side of a cliff in the freezing rain with a French pirate..."

"I know," Francis agreed. "I wouldn't have believed it either.

"Come on," he gestured upward, then took Arthur's hips in his hands. "Ready? _Un_ , _deux_ , _trois_ —!"

It wasn't the highest cliff either man had ever scaled, but it was steep. It took teamwork and no small amount of strength to reach the top, by which time both were panting in exhaustion. Arthur staggered and braced his hands on his knees.

"Where—?"

Breathless, Francis pointed down the road. And they ran.

* * *

Arthur heard the farmer before he saw him. A lull in the din alerted him to the direction of a lumbering hay-wagon, pulled by two unhappy horses. They whinnied and shook their heads, hooves clomping heavily through the mud with a wet, sucking sound. One tossed its head in fright and got whipped by the driver, a big, broad-shouldered man. His loud voice cut through rain:

" _Shut up_!" he hollered. He had something—some _one_ —struggling in his grasp.

" _No_!" the child shrieked.

Alfred's big blue eyes seemed aglow when lightning struck. The man held him by the neck of his too-big coat, his little legs dangling.

"If you don't fucking stop, I'll— _Ah_! Fucking brat!"

Alfred kicked-out again, but, this time, the man dodged it and raised his fist to strike a blow of his own.

" _ALFRED_!" Arthur yelled.

Alfred's eyes grew wide in bewilderment when he saw Arthur and Francis. Then a determined look set his angelic features and, wriggling free, he slipped out of his coat. Arthur watched in horror as the little boy flung himself rebelliously off the wagon and fell, hitting the muddy ground hard.

" _Alfred_!" Francis screamed.

Alfred shook his head, crawled to his feet, and ran toward them. " _Papa_! _Daddy_!" he shouted as loudly as he could. It was an ear-splitting shriek, cut abruptly short. " _No_!" he cried as the farmer grabbed him from behind.

The wagon had stopped and the big man had jumped down in pursuit. He swiftly retrieved the muddy boy, lifting him around his belly as Alfred waved his fists.

"Shut up, you fucking brat! If you don't behave I'm going to teach you some bloody manners—"

"Don't you dare!" Arthur snarled in fast approach.

When the farmer saw the two wild-looking young men, he stepped back, eyeing them suspiciously as if they were predators.

"Let him go," Arthur demanded, his fists clenched. Francis was tense beside him.

"Who are you?" a woman barked from the wagon. "What do you want?"

"I'm Captain Arthur Kirkland of His Majesty's Royal Navy and that"—he pointed to Alfred—"is my son."

"Sod-off!" the farmer snapped. "He is not! I got him from the orphanage, the brat's mine now!"

"That was a mistake!" Arthur admitted, looking directly at Alfred as he spoke, pleading.

_It was a terrible mistake_ , _and I'm sorry. Please believe me. Please believe that I love you_ , _Alfred._

He was so afraid that the boy would reject his apology, feeling betrayed and abandoned, but Alfred's big blue eyes stared longing and he nodded in forgiveness, just wanting his father. He reached-out for Arthur, who stepped forward.

"Alfred—"

"I said no!" snapped the farmer, retreating with Alfred.

"No, wait! He's my son, they both are!" Arthur insisted, growing desperate as he hurried forward. "Please!"

"Give them back _right now_!" snapped Francis impatiently. "I swear to God, if you hurt my sons I'll make you regret it!"

"Yours?" The farmer frowned, nodding between them. "Or _yours_?

"Look, if you want orphans so badly then go back to the orphanage and get your own. These two are mine—"

He stopped short when he saw the pistol aimed at him.

"I won't miss," Arthur warned, deadly serious. "I'm Captain Arthur Kirkland of His Majesty's Royal Navy and I'm ordering you to hand those boys over _now_."

The farmer glared stubbornly at the gun barrel, then at the two smaller men glaring at him, challenging him. He was weighing Arthur's threat, his resolve and willingness to break the law for the sake of two worthless orphans. Arthur's heart pounded in his chest as he held the man's gaze, trying not to blink despite the rain. He was terrified at the prospect of losing Alfred and Matthew, but his aim was stead, just like it had been before.

_I won't lose them. Not now_ , _not ever again._

He read the farmer's naked intent and instantly hated him. He hated anyone who threatened his loved ones.

"Last chance," he said. "If you don't release my son, I'll shoot you."

One tense moment, then two—then Alfred was suddenly thrust toward him. The little boy flew through the air and crashed against Arthur, who caught him with a gasp.

Arthur heard the crack of a whip and the horses urged into a canter.

The farmer had jumped back into the wagon and he and his wife were escaping.

" _Mattie_!" Alfred screamed.

Arthur pushed him into Francis' arms and then took off running, pistol in hand.

* * *

**BONNEFOI**

Francis clutched Alfred tightly as Arthur sprinted off in pursuit, kicking up muddy water.

" _Oh_ , _mon chéri_. _Je suis désolé_ , _je suis désolé_ ," he repeated, flooded with relief as he squeezed the boy in his arms, kissing Alfred's rosy cheek. It was wet with rain and tears. "Don't be afraid, _chéri_. Papa's here now and I'll never leave you again, I promise. _Je t'aime_ , _mon bébé_." He kissed the trembling boy again, rocking him. " _Je t'aime_ , Alfred."

Alfred wrapped his pudgy arms tightly around Francis' neck and buried his head beneath his papa's chin. He gasped in fear, shock. Francis felt his whole body wracked with sobs. " _Papa_!" he cried helplessly.

"Yes, Alfred." Francis rubbed his back. "I'm here. I'm here, baby, everything is going to be okay."

And, against the odds, Francis believed it. As he watched Arthur's lithe shadow disappear through the sheets of rain, chasing after the wagon, he let himself smile. Despite his nerves, his pounding heart, he was unafraid. There was no doubt in his mind that Arthur would rescue Mathieu, like he had rescued them all so many times before.

_Everything's going to be okay now because we're together._ _I don't care about anything else. This is what I want. This is it_. _This is my second chance and I'm not going to waste it._

"Come on, Alfred," he said, overwhelmed with happiness as he hugged his son. "Let's go get your brother."

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Arthur slipped, flailing madly, then caught his balance and kept running. He had never run so much in his life.

Rain pelted him, and the wind tore at him, pushing him back, but he clenched the pistol's slick metal grip in determination and pushed himself to go faster. His legs ached in protest, exhausted, but something inside of him said:

_No._

_I won't let you take him_.

Slowing to a walk, he raised the pistol. He could see Matthew's head above the bench, his pale hair tied with Francis' ribbon. The woman held him against her side, preventing him from escape. But Arthur wasn't looking for her to let go of Matthew. Instead, he searched for the reigns: black leather straps extending from her hand to the horses' harnesses, which attached the beasts to the lumbering wagon. They weren't military horses used to loud gunshots, but simple farm beasts afraid of the storm; and the wagon wheels weren't reinforced with iron. The vehicle slid across the muddy surface of the road.

Arthur took aim.

_I won't miss_.

He shouldn't have been able to see through the rain to target the harness, but somehow he could. The storm should have compromised his pistol, the bullet's trajectory, but somehow he knew it wouldn't. He shouldn't have been able to make this shot, but he saw it as clear as day. He saw his son, who needed him. He kept both eyes open, sucked in his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

_BANG_!

The noise spooked the horses and the bullet cut cleanly through the harness on one side. It fell, releasing one of the horses, which stopped and reared-up in fright. It surprised the other, which pulled ahead. The wagon slid on an angle through the mud, lopsided because of the unevenly distributed weight, and then crashed onto its side. A shriek sounded as the adults fell, dragging Matthew down with them.

" _Matthew_!" Arthur called, dashing forward.

For a second he worried that he had endangered the boy; worried he had fallen beneath the wagon, despite his high seat. Panic gripped him as he reached the wagon, avoiding the horses, and shoving the cursing man aside. He was trapped beneath the wagon; his wife had been thrown and lay a few meters away.

"Matthew?" Arthur called again, grabbing for him.

Matthew's face was wide-eyed and ghost-white. Arthur feared he was hurt, but, before he could check, the boy launched himself straight into Arthur's arms, and cried:

"I'm s-s-sorry! Daddy, I'm s-s-sorry! I'll be g-g-good, I p-p-promise! Please don't leave again—don't s-s-send me away! I want to s-s-stay with you and Papa!

" _Je s-s-suis désolé_!" he sobbed, clutching Arthur frantically. " _Papa_ , _s'il v-v-vous plaît_... _je s-s-suis désolé_!

" _Je t'aime_ , _Capitaine Arthur_. I l-l-love you, so p-p-please don't g-g-go..."

Dumbfounded, Arthur scooped Matthew into his arms and hugged him tight.

"Oh, my darling," he said, stroking the boy's dripping head. "I'm so sorry, my Matthew. I was such a fool. I'm sorry. But you're safe now. I promise.

"I love you, too, my darling."

He was crying, now; crying into Matthew's curls.

"I love you and Alfred and Francis, and I promise I will never leave you again. I promise, my love, everything is going to be okay now. We're going home, all of us together. I promise.

" _I promise_."

* * *

_Mathieu_!" Francis gasped, jogging toward them. " _Est-ce que tu vas bien_ , _mon chéri_?"

" _Oui_ , _Papa_ ," said Matthew softly. "I just want to go home."

Francis exchanged an incredulous look with Arthur, who smiled. Then he laughed. He couldn't help it, he felt as if a weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, and though it was raining and he was soaked—exhausted, bruised, and covered in mud—his world had brightened. He looked at his precious ragtag little family: Francis, Alfred, and Matthew all huddled together with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and he felt like the luckiest man on earth.

_This is what I've been waiting for._

After years of searching for a place in the world, of feeling lost and alone, he had finally won fortune's favour, because she had gifted him with a love worth dying for; a love worth fighting for.

_This_ , he knew, taking Francis' hand, holding their sons between them, _is where I belong._

"Come on, my loves," he said to his family. "It's time to go home."


	10. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

**NORTH SEA**

**1737**

The blue-eyed child looked like a cherub, picture-perfect, with soft golden locks and a big, sunshine smile that beguiled his adoptive parents.

Alfred stood happily on the bow of the ship that he called home. It was a slender two-mast schooner painted cornflower-blue, the same shade as Alfred's eyes. The hull proclaimed her name: _The Lily Maid_. Dad's savings couldn't have afforded her alone, not even with severance pay from the Royal Navy, but Papa's— _ahem—_ savings (loot from two years of pirating: " _Why didn't you tell me you were rich_?" Dad had yelled at Papa in surprise) had paid the balance.

Dad had bought the ship in secret after being discharged from His Majesty's service.

"They weren't exactly sorry to see the back of me," Dad had told Papa. Then they laughed and Alfred didn't know why, but he liked to see them both smiling, so he didn't ask.

They had left England soon after and sailed north along the coast. _The Lily Maid_ wasn't even half the size of _The Rose_ , but Alfred didn't mind. He hadn't been allowed to play on _The Rose_ anyway; now, he could go wherever he wanted (mostly). She was a _manageable_ size for Dad and Papa to sail on their own—that's what Dad said whenever he or Matthew pointed to the larger ships and asked why they couldn't have one of them, instead. Papa said that he and Matthew would learn to be proper sailors, too. Alfred swore he was strong enough to be a sailor already—"Mattie and I are six now, Papa!"—but Papa was strict and said they had to grow a little bigger first.

During a _rendezvous_ —"that's French!" Alfred had told Dad proudly, then deflated a little when Dad asked him if he knew what it meant—in Scotland, Alfred and Matthew met their new uncle Alistair, whom everyone called Scott, so Alfred did too. He _loved_ Uncle Scott! He was kind of big and scary-looking, but really funny (when they could understand what he was saying). Alfred liked him because he laughed a lot and took he and Matthew riding. (Alfred had been afraid of the horses at first, but pretended not to be.) Uncle Scott was even going to let Alfred and Matthew have a collie puppy each to take home, but Dad had firmly said no, and then got grumpy one night when Uncle Scott winked at Papa. Alfred and Matthew were sad to leave Scotland, but Dad—begrudgingly—promised that they would be back, and that they still had three more uncles to meet.

"You'll like Owen," he said. "Owen's fine."

"What about Uncle Liam and Uncle Patrick?" Alfred asked eagerly.

"Owen has dogs, too," Arthur continued, ignoring the question, "and he's a really good musician. You'll like him a lot."

But it wasn't just for family fun. At each port, Dad and Papa would leave Alfred and Matthew with one uncle or another and go into town for a bit, establishing themselves as _entrepreneurs_. As far as Alfred could tell, that meant they could get people the things they wanted. Between Dad's maritime knowledge and Papa's money, people started to trust them, and soon enough _The Lily Maid_ 's hold was always full of interesting treasures: everything from crates of textiles to barrels of whiskey to tobacco—which made Alfred really sick after Matthew dared him to eat some of it. Alfred was proud of _The Lily Maid_ , whose stealth made her all but undetectable to pirates and the navy alike. She ran in secret, of course, and eventually earned a reputation as _a ghost ship_ , which greatly amused the mischievous boys.

Alfred absolutely loved his new life aboard _The Lily Maid_. He loved climbing and fishing and learning to sail. Papa was even teaching him how to cook! He loved the ports they visited and the people they met, especially his four uncles. He loved being rocked to sleep by the waves each night; loved listening to Papa sing; loved the feel of Dad's hands tucking him in tight. He was no longer afraid of the world, or suspicious of strangers, and he no longer felt the need to protect Matthew from danger, because he had his parents for that now. He loved them the most, and he knew that they loved him too.

They were his family.

They were his home.

* * *

**KIRKLAND**

Alfred, _chéri_ ," said Francis, holding him around the belly. Alfred spread his arms and pretended that he was flying as _The Lily Maid_ cut through the white-capped waves. He laughed happily, trusting Francis not to let go. "Don't fly away on me," he teased the boy.

Alfred whooped. "Don't worry, Papa. I'll always come back."

"Well, you had best be back before tea," said Arthur, mock-stern. He was carrying Matthew on his shoulders, letting the boy play with his spyglass. Matthew giggled at Arthur's joke. ( _Bless that boy_. He was the only one who ever laughed at Arthur's lame jokes.) "You won't want to miss it, Alfred. Papa has made, err... some sort of jam biscuits."

"They're called _navettes_ , _chéri_ ," Francis corrected.

"I don't care," Arthur dismissed. "They're flakey little French pastries—" he leant forward and kissed Francis' stubbled cheek "—and I've grown quite fond of them. Don't you agree, Matthew?" he asked, lifting the boy down to the deck. Matthew stood at the bow beside Alfred and smiled at his parents.

"Yes, Dad."

"Mathieu is my true soul-mate," Francis teased, cupping the boy's cheek. "He loves sweets as much as I do. _Oui_ , _chéri_?"

" _Oui_ , _je adore les bonbons_ , _Papa_.

"May I steer the ship now, Dad?" he asked, tugging on Arthur's sleeve. His bright, long-lashed eyes looked exceptionally violet in the glowing sunset, full of hope and wonder.

"You steered already today!" Alfred argued. "It's my turn! I need to practise so I can be a great captain!"

"Yes indeed, pet," said Arthur as Francis ushered both boys.

They raced each other to the helm, already apt at keeping their balance. So young, they had adapted quickly to life aboard the rocking ship and they moved as if they were born to it. They yelled and laughed, fighting each other: healthy and happy and loved. Arthur and Francis followed them to the helm, watching indulgently. Francis threaded his long fingers through Arthur's and squeezed gently as they walked. It was a simple gesture, but it felt good. Then, as Arthur began to climb the steps, Francis stopped.

"Is this everything you wanted?" he asked, indicating the boys, the ship, the open-sea.

"And more," Arthur replied, staring down at Francis. "I stand corrected, frog-eater." He leant down and met Francis' lips, losing himself for a moment in the taste, the feel. "It turns out you _can_ live on love.

"And a bit of piracy," he added, smirking.

Francis pulled Arthur in closer."I never thought I'd say _I love you_ to an Englishman, or _thank-you_ for giving me a second chance. I won't waste it."

"I don't expect you to," Arthur replied. "They need you." He nodded to the boys. Then: "I need you."

" _Now—_?"

"Maybe." Arthur's lips curled promiscuously, but before he could elaborate—

"Dad, hurry! I want to steer the ship!" Alfred called, moaning loudly. "Watch me, Papa. I'll show you how I do it."

"Yes, _chéri_. Show me what a great sailor you've become."

"I have, too. I can steer better," Matthew bragged quietly.

Francis winked at him in confidence. Arthur positioned both boys at the helm and placed their tiny hands on the wheel. He kept a hand on each boy's shoulder, feeling a father's pride. He loved them both so unconditionally, and it had happened in such a short time. Now, he couldn't imagine his life without them—all three of them. He could feel Francis' body behind him, standing close. He could feel Francis' velvet lips on his neck, a gentle kiss. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and held him back-to-chest as the ship heaved-to, making the ex-naval captain feel like he was exactly where he belonged.

Smiling, Arthur said: "Have at it, lads. Take us on an adventure."

As _The Lily Maid_ sailed into a fiery sunset, Francis whispered: "We're already on one."

* * *

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)
> 
> Thank-you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed "Fortune's Favour". Your support and reviews are wonderful and greatly appreciated. It's made re-posting old stories worth it. For those interested, I'll begin posting "Spanish Gold" soon, which is the sequel, featuring Spain x Romano. Cheers! :D


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